The Purpose Of Life

I should be on medication.
Have you ever had a moment when everything seems to fall perfectly in place, and it gives you a sliver of understanding about your purpose in life. Me neither, but last Wednesday came close.

When I opened my eyes, Mary was sleeping beside me and splinters of golden light were shining through the blinds. I had to elbow her three times before she woke up.

"What's for breakfast?" I asked.

"Whatever you make," she replied.

Easing out of bed, I stepped to the window and inhaled a chestful of smoggy city air. You can't help but cough.

I was interrupted from scratching myself by the BlackBerry vibrating on the dresser. The clinic where I work nights was calling to see if I could come in and help out. The day shift Tech had called out sick.

"Give me an hour, and I'll try to make it," I said.

With prices for everything going up, I needed the extra money. Why I ever entered the health care field is a mystery. You will never get rich, and the hours are long and unrewarding.

The clinic is located in downtown Tucson, and I always enjoy the scenery during the ten minute drive. The dealers are already on the corners, and there's always a few hookers headed for breakfast at T-J's after a busy night. If you are interested in paying for sex, Tucson has the best rates in the country.

Walking into the clinic, I observed two fat guys and one old lady seated in the waiting area. I should have stayed the fuck home. Stelazine Rivers, the RN on duty was drawing blood from a young man in the triage room. She waved me over.

"Morning Alan," she said. "There's one patient in with the doctor, and Mr. Silver is next." She nodded toward the young man while grabbing a blue top tube.

I guess it was too much effort for her to say thanks for coming in on my day off. She acted like I didn't have a choice.

"Where do you want me to start?" I grumbled. After years of working on the night shift, I was unfamiliar with the daytime routine.

Stelazine pointed toward the grey-haired woman in the waiting area. "Start getting that woman's info, and we will go from there."

RN's love to flaunt their authority, and I hoped that Stelazine would leave me alone for the rest of the day. The old woman in the waiting room was staring at me as if waiting for something.

"Good morning," I said, while holding out my hand. "My name's Alan, and I'm one of the Medical Technicians. If you will follow me to the exam room, I have some questions to ask you."

"You seem like a nice young man," she said, while struggling to rise from the low sofa. "My name is Helen Oliver."

Mrs. Oliver's breath smelled like last weeks fritters, and it took all my strength to avoid gagging. Old people tend to depress me.

Mrs. Oliver was eventually able to stand up. I grasped her thin arm and guided her toward the exam room adjacent to the triage room. I estimated her age to be around 104, but she seemed to be ambulating without difficulty. She appeared frail as a feather, but there was something annoying about her piercing blue eyes, and they remain fixed on me as I pushed her down on the exam table.

"Stop staring at me," I muttered.

"Thank you dear," she said.

When people can't hear what you are saying, it gives you options.

"You're welcome," I replied. "I'm going to ask you for some basic information, and then you will see the nurse or doctor."

"What ever you decide dear."

It's hard to remain professional when you don't give a fuck, but I managed. It turned out that Mrs Oliver was eighty-nine years old. She must have had a rough life because she had more wrinkles than my cat's ass. After filling out the required information on the nursing form, I was finally able to ask the important question.

"What brings you into the clinic today?"

Her sparkling blue eyes searched my face, and she reached out to grab my hand. If I had been faster, I could have avoided her touch. Her fingers were ice cold, and the translucent skin on the back of her hand revealed some ugly blue veins. Her hand was rough enough to sand my porch railing.

"I was next door at the Wal-Mart looking for a pot holder, and somehow I ended up in the sporting goods aisle," she explained. "My husband Arthur loved to fish, and seeing the poles brought back so many memories."

By this time, I was wondering what the fuck she was talking about and waiting for her to pull out pictures of Bobo the cat. I was hoping she might pass out so I could move on to the next patient. I took her blood pressure and pulse, and both were within normal ranges.

"Are you feeling weak or dizzy? I asked.

"Oh no, I'm just fine sitting here talking to you," she replied. "You look like my husband when he was young. Arthur died five months ago, and now he's with Jesus."

Good old Arthur might be with Jesus, but there are other possibilities.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I get so lonely," she continued. "Arthur and I never had any children, and sometimes you just need to talk with somebody. I saw the clinic, and thought it might be a safe place."

Health care facilities in America are not safe places.

"You aren't feeling ill?" I asked.

"Heavens no dear. Thinking about Arthur just made me wish I had a friend to talk with. You have been very kind listening to an old woman's troubles."

Mrs. Oliver's comment left me wondering how the fuck I turned into Dr. Phil. There was nothing physically wrong with her, but I needed Stelazine to check her out. Minions are not allowed to make decisions. She agreed that the old woman just needed someone to talk to. That's what the internet is for.

Stelazine ordered me to walk Mrs. Oliver to her car. People that old should not be operating a motor vehicle. I watched her drive out of The Wal-Mart parking lot without killing anybody.

Last Friday, Mary and I were sitting outside at the corner café drinking coffee when I noticed a familiar figure at one of the tables.

"Alan is that you?" Mrs. Oliver screeched.

I was doing a good job of pretending not to hear her when Mary got involved.

"Isn't that lady calling you?" my wife asked.

Only your spouse can manage to fuck up a good day. We spent the next hour listening to a woman with senile dementia ramble on about Arthur. While watching a pretty young lady in red shorts walking past the café, I reminded myself to find another coffee shop.

The next thing I knew, Mary was tugging on my arm and screaming, "Something's wrong with Helen."

Helen Oliver was slumped over on the table, and my wife was struggling to keep her from falling on the ground. There's really no need for heroic measures when the victim is over sixty. I checked her pulse, and it was fast, weak, and thready. I would have called a time out, but some idiot had already called 911.

The ambulance was there quickly, and they lifted Mrs Oliver onto a gurney while administering oxygen. She had regained consciousness, and was striving to speak. In an attempt to hear her, I bent over the stretcher and placed my ear at a sanitary distance from her mouth.

"I'm going to join Arthur with Jesus," she croaked, and closed her eyes.

Helen Oliver actually went to the Densmore Funeral Home. This is Tucson so there's a excellent possibility that Jesus works there in some capacity.