Why Thomas Pynchon Loves Nurses

For me it was a normal day- Long island City-Seven train to the uptown Six- in twenty minutes-walking across Lexington Avenue on the upper east side of Manhattan. As normal a day as any in the NYC strangeness of early 2002. But for a nurse working in a busy New York emergency room it was normal. And in many ways it stayed so. I went straight to the assignment board, got mine from the charge nurse-12 houres in the cardiac room, sharing the care of six or seven patients with another RN. I had three on the east bank, each connected to monitors- all looking fairly “well” considering their days were already sucking. But in general the monitors were blinking and beeping a steady rhythm; patient’s skin was all acceptably rosy, no ivory white pale scariness to indicate imminent badness for the human body. A normal day. I got a cup of coffee, and followed the night nurse, a dyed black haired fifty something goddess who after a well earned twenty something years of ER nursing in this shoebox department was way more interested in novel writing and her MFA. NY nurses are different like that. I took report on each patient, recording the incidentals, importants and to do’s. As is typical in the modern era of uninsured the department was overflowing with “borders” from the night shift. In addition to every bed being filled with patients awaiting admission, the hallways were lined with stretchers carrying white cotton lumps- under which were people hiding from the florescent lights, mean streets and the general unfriendliness the morning staff has to sleeping. I approached each in my generic gentle caring way, standing at least a foot away but not more than two, (masted after years of practice, to close- a lugi in the eye-too far and I may have to repeat myself. Years of experience demonstrated that twelve hours in a shoebox is best survived by not repeating oneself and not being lugied upon) and placed a gentle but firm hand on the “shoulder” of the lump- “um mister” –“um mam” and a gentle rocking led to a variety of sticking up hair fros emerging from beneath the worn white cotton blankets.-Jew (sticking up hair) fro, Wasp(sticking up hair) fro, Af (sticking up hair) fro Sticking up hair number next was really more of a plastered down blacky grayness. A clearly unwashed lost my comb more than a week ago sort of do, was sitting in a wheel chair, in the middle of the hall, just outside the cardiac room.
I gave him the aformentioned stand a foot away and reach gently technique. An unsurprising man, perhaps in his fifties, pale, unshaved looked up with attentiveness. I introduced myself and he did too. Cast on his left arm, or perhaps a sling. To what happened he answered that he had fallen. Drinking , I thought, came in here to get off the street last night. I’ll get him some breakfast I thought. Looked down at his clothes and some clothes- he’ll be out of here. “And my shoulder hurts”, he told me. “Did you hurt it when you fell”, I asked, unconcerned but doing diligence. He told me maybe, he had gotten dizzy. He didn’t remember. Could I touch his shoulder, did it hurt when I pressed? It did not. To how he got the cast, “I fell over a week ago”. To why it took him so long to come in- “no, I fell again last night”. I started to pay attention. Moved him into a newly vacated slot in my cardiac room. May I remove your shirt and get you into a gown. He was polite and passive. No pain when I moved his shoulder. No pain when I pushed on it. Just a constant dull achy feeling. “You fell ten days ago”, I asked again. Now here is where things get a little strange. His problem popped into my head, and I really don’t know from where or why. The best I can do it that a Chinese doctor in Bridgeport Connecticut has noticed the same thing one time, and had diagnosed my patient without hesitation based upon the exact story while I stood in awe at his brilliance. Fell 10 days ago. Now feeling week and falling again. The hair stood up all over my body, as it does when someone just got lucky and it wasn’t because of hard work but due to that weird silent snap. “May I touch your belly” led to firm tenderness across the upper left side. All you nurses and doctors new what was happening a paragraph ago. But I didn’t until that minute. “Your spleen is ruptured”, led to silence. My attending led to the surgical attending to the ultrasound department and back waiting for sutures in that soft organ.
An hour later he was back waiting for the operating room and there was a woman by his side. I introduced myself, and she too, as his wife. Surprised that my initial assessment had been so wrong, (homeless drunk was married to a nice women) but happy that my final one had been correct. I was in a bit of a proud and chatty mood. As he lay dozing in and out, what he did for a living came with small talk. He’s a writer, she told me. Is he any good, I asked, because I was feeling a bit proud and chatty, and must have felt I could. The best she said. How sweet I thought. When he woke I told him I liked to write too. You should stick with nursing he told me, “it’s useful”. I felt proud and chatty. I peeled a sticker off his chart and stuck it too my bag, I saved this guys live I thought, I’ll keep this.
It had started off as an average day, and for the most part had remained so, minus the life saving. Back in Long Island City after the twelve hours. To how was your day I replied, “it was alright, I saved some guys life”. “Really”, unsurprised but happy. “Yeah he was a writer”. To what was his name, “I don’t remember”. “Actually I have the sticker. Thomas Pynchon”, I said, “I never heard of him have you?” “Give me that” , she said.

plain and simple

Its neo colonialism or some such post (never was gone) imperial nastiness that follows the well heeled pha (soup) blisters of the picket fence cum loft crowd down Mexico way. Or better yet lets jump into the land of latrines and big brown eyes, blog back regarding the humility of it all, and then like a shitty cherry, on a college application sunday, avert our eyes from their vacant ones and eat it down. Thank you very much, may I have another?. Say it loud and say it proud! I'm not special, I have nothing to offer people in any country anywhere in the world. Everybody is better off without me. I gave the ghost my Apple inc. Cosmo(politan) in exchange for forehead touching and unblinking hunger. Big brown eyes can't crawl across the digital Rubicon. They just can't camp, scamp, kitsche while crying. Can we put it all to rest, that there is an altruistic ounce in taking the slow boat across the pond? There are weeds growing between the cracks, and even the lumberjacks (bd) have (much) more imagination than it takes to strap a Patagonia pack shoes for the trip of a lifetime