Wake Me Up Before I Go Go

Working in New York City is not a Broadway show, but there is a whole lot of drama. Employees of every job description hear the whistling of the crazy train and somewhere there's a conductor yelling, “All board!”

There's Juanita, the triage nurse who needs to clean everything with 70% alcohol soaked on a Kerlix roll before starting her shift.

“Good morning, Juanita,” I say still feeling tired and sleepy and just wishing this were all a dream. “No one talk to me!!” she says with her tongue hanging out like a lost puppy. She scrubs her desk, chair, computer, and blood pressure apparatus like a scene from Porgy and Bess. (The main character sang Summertime while scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees.)

The living is not easy for people like Juanita who isolate themselves from the modern world. Once I asked co-workers why this RN was hell bent on her twisted ways and the reply was, “Leave her alone, her husband left her.”

“Oh???” Snap.

Then there's Miss Kimodo, dressed in lace and pearls over faded Dickies and screaming about her assignment.

“Don’t gang up on me!” she yells as her facial pancake collapses and her eyes turn into little slots of eyeliner like a wilted Madame Butterfly. She runs from me grabbing her temples like she's holding up a facelift. It is only the start of the morning and she already breathes fire.

Once I asked the others, “How can we help her?” and I was told, “She needs a man.”

“Oh???” Snap.

Then there's Sara-Belle Palsy, a princess from her village, now just an RN from Staten Island. This is a woman who called the union on me for allegedly calling her a “Psycho.”

“I did not call you that,” I said calmy in the meeting. “I merely suggested that the mental health clinic is available for you as a walk-in.” Miss Palsy then stood up and did a jig and salsa that could rival any dance from West Side Story. Yes, I too “Like to be in America,” I sang in my bubble.

When Ms. Kimodo and Sara-Bell Palsy are both working together, the hum of the choo-choo can be heard a mile away. It's definitely a little train that couldn't and I'm feeling worn out.

I think of the crazies in San Francisco and I miss them...

There was Lotta Cox, the RN who wore spandex and chewed on chicken skin at the heart monitors. Mary-Ann, the mongoose who reported everyone and ate frozen Snickers bars for lunch. And who could forget Wanda, the black secretary who wore short blonde wigs, blouses from Sizes Unlimited and dressed as a pubic hair on Halloween (Yes, you read it right: a pubic hair, and she sat next to a can of coke).

And of course there were the identical twins, Millie and Muffy, Nurse's aides who were both lazy and crazy. If Millie were scheduled, Muffy might show up in her place. We knew the difference because she loved to read the bible at the nurse’s station.

“Muffy, could you answer the patient’s call light?” I would ask testing her patience.

“Fuck off, can’t you see I’m reading?” Then she would slam shut the book’s leather binder, scaring the other RNs.

“Of course,” I say. “Jesus saves.” Snap.

The only time Muffy and Millie jumped from their seats was for the platter of “Safeway” cake in the lounge.

Those were the days, I think.

If only life were an IPOD, there would be sweet moonbeams, strawberry avalanches and exploding stars (a musical reverie). Instead, I crawl through the corridors of a busy hospital and listen to the menu for the Nurse's Day pot luck.

“It will be fabulous!” says the Brooklyn gay in a large Tropicana- style shirt resembling a character from La Cage Aux Folles.

“Last year I bit into a neck,” I say turning my own neck and handing over twenty dollars.

“I told you that was a tail!” he exclaims marking my name as paid. (Oh! For all that’s holy, ox-tail at a luncheon?!)

Then I can’t help myself and ask him, “Are you wearing a muu-muu?”

“Bitch,” he politely says back and we laugh like old friends.

I'd be a rich nurse if I had a dollar for everyone who called me that, I think.

Just last week I was walking past the elevator when I saw a female employee lying down on the ground with her manager holding open the door. I recognized this employee as one who loves to be triaged while on the job (headaches, cold symptoms, pimples, you name it, she’s gotta have it.)

“Why are you on the floor?” I ask in disbelief. As she looked at me with her head in a 90 degree rotation I hear her say to her boss,“Not that bitch again.”

About an hour later I see the same employee 100 yards from the hospital entrance standing and having a laugh with her friends. She was sucking a cigarette in one hand and holding a work release slip in the other. She looked at me harshly with the glare of chain-gang eyes and I say to her, "Ain’t life a bitch?" Snap...

No, now a really loud 'snap, snap, snap'...It's the sound of an alarm clock clearly waking me up for another round and as I look up to see 4 hungry eyes in the darkness, I hear the sound of my better half saying, “Do you work today?”

It is then that I realize why I never bought a ticket for the crazy train. It's as clear as the coming spring weather. After I put on my own faded scrubs, grab my glasses, cellphone, look for my wallet (Coach, of course), and then feed the cats, I know why my life isn’t so bad: it’s because I am loved.

And, somewhere deep within me, I believe I'm really in a musical and that love can fix anything, even for a worn out nurse like me.