Something Twisted This Way Comes

This is a story about escape.

Patti Metz was a patient of mine in Pill Hill, California. Her room overlooked a beautiful park landscaped with calla lilies and wild freesias in the spring. A special needs home dropped her off when her asthma became a series of exhausting respirations and the simple act of breathing became a crap shoot. Patti was 53 years old and was mentally challenged, an adorable woman who melted everyone's heart and became known as Patti-Melt.

After taking her blood sugar and giving her some regular insulin, I would set Patti up in the hall outside of her room to have her breakfast and watch the busy morning unfold before her magical eyes. Every now and then she would yell and wave to me as if it was the first time she had seen me.

“Hello, Honey Bun,” she would smile with barely a tooth in her wide grill. She started calling me Honey Bun because I had a sister nicknamed Honey Girl, who I also called Doo-Doo Girl because of her mean and selfish personality.

“Eat all of your breakfast Patti or I will call Doo-Doo Girl.” My mean sister became a symbol, like a troll under a bridge, and Patti would laugh and then behave herself, for even though she was a grown woman who had actually been married once, she was still a child prone to temper tantrums.

When she told me the story of her marriage I was fascinated and heartbroken at the same time. I had snuck her some Fritos and a Diet Coke, and sat with her for awhile when she said, “He beat me.”

“Who beat you, Patti?” I asked. “My husband,” she said without missing a beat and using her good tooth to crunch the corn chips. There was absolutely no trail of sadness in her eyes when I watched her chase away the ghosts with Diet Coke.

“Are you all right?” I said stunned by this revelation. Then Patti did what she did best, she recited her menu to me. “For dinner I’m having baked chicken with corn, salad with french dressing, sugar free jello and apple juice.”

“Oh my,” I said. “That’s a whole lot better than what Doo-Doo Girl will eat.”

“What is she eating?” asked Patti with diamonds in her eyes.

“She’s eating just one piece of bread with cheese.” Patti groaned and said, “Awww Honey Bun, I think your pulling my leg.” And with this I laughed, leaned over and kissed this overgrown child on her head. She instinctively knew that I was a nurse who would protect her from all wild things.

Near the end of Patti’s extended hospital stay, when the IV was discontinued and she was started on Prednisone, Nurse Irma and her cousin Penny helped me move her to a room away from the station closer to the elevator. I watched these nurses closely as everyone knew that Irma was sleeping with Penny’s husband and the tension was mounting. Gossip was a nurse’s dream and nightmare at the same time and I was praying that I would be there for the showdown. Little did I know that the tragedy of the two Filipina Nurses would have its duel on that fateful afternoon.

Penny had petitioned for Irma to come live with them in San Francisco, helping Irma settle into an American life equipped with a nice home, a good nursing job and a husband willing to help the family out. Penny was an older nurse concerned for her younger cousin’s welfare, even asking the other nurses for help. “Can anyone find a man for Irma?” she asked. (Poor Penny, she was the last to know.)

Somewhere between the bed baths, chemo infusions, and physician rounding came the sounds of a massive attack; a twisted mess of painted fingernails, dollar earrings, and pink scrub tops. But it was Patti who made the first cry. “Help!” she screamed. I had always placed her chair out in the hallway to keep an eye on her but I had no idea she would have front row seating in a legendary battle between two professional RNs.

We ran to the elevator and found both nurses on the ground kicking and screaming. “You take my husband, I kill you!” shouted Penny while pulling Irma’s hair, yanking out the butterfly hair clips of the tainted mistress.

“I lub him!” said the young Filipina as she endured a kick to the ribs.

We stood there breathless because no one dared to get in between the nurses, after all, didn’t Irma deserve it? I moved Patti back into her room but didn’t dare take my eyes off this prize fight. In the end Penny stood alone clutching the necklace of her cousin, a gift from her husband. “I am shame,” she said to co-workers who guided her to the lounge and prepared cover from the bosses; although it was already understood that nobody saw anything. The wild things retreated to their respective corners and everyone returned to the world of caring and comfort.

On the day of the beat down, Patti Metz had a Patti melt-down. I know because of one sure sign: It wasn’t the vital signs of blood pressure, pulse, temp or respirations, all those were in normal limits. It was another source of strength that helped Patti escape a twisted reality.

When I calmed her down, I listened to her lungs and they were clear. Thank god the asthma had not returned. I pulled up a foot stool, sat down, held her hand and Patti then said with the absolute clarity of an adult...

“Two pieces of bacon, buttered toast, scrambled eggs and apple juice.”