I am sixty-two years old, my heart occasionally stops beating, I am occasionally incontinent, this is my tenth day in a hospital bed, and I am beginning to have a blurring of day and night.
The nurses would check on me two to three times a day, and I would count the times when the nurses entered the room, eight o'clock, twelve o'clock, and the imprecise times at night. I had adjusted to the embarrassment of dealing with nurses changing my bedpan and clothes after incontinence. Usually I don't look up to see if the nurse looks disgusted.
The nurses are also usually not extra young and pretty, mostly older women with poor uniforms and the occasional grease spot on their clothes.
And my daily routine consisted of nothing more than clenching my fists to avoid screaming when my heart was in severe pain, urgently ringing the bell to call the nurse when I was incontinent, and staring intently at the collar of the nurse's coat and her shoes and socks every day when she came through the door. Then again, I have a pen and a notebook, and I draw every nurse who comes through the door to check on her as well as record the daily weather.
Sometimes I look forward to accidents, for example, when the nurse falls as she enters, so maybe I won't be the only one in a mess, and maybe she'll show half her breasts in the fall.