Peeling a Nunion

One evening when Bill and I were working in the emergency department, three nuns were brought in from an automobile accident. The ambulance crew delivered them one after another. The nuns were of the old order and were dressed in the long, black full-length robes. They wore chains, ropes, head piece, mantles, etc.

Let me say this. Anyone who would decide to rape a nun either has no idea of what he is getting into or has all the time in the world to achieve his goal. I could not believe the amount of clothing these women donned everyday of their lives, until I started to undress them and get them into hospital issue gowns. It was a full fifteen minutes before I saw any kind of bare flesh.

It was peeling an onion, but it didn’t make me cry, layer after layer. Underneath the robes were folds of binders, tee shirts, ropes, and safety pins galore. It was crazy. After much diligence, they were out of their habits and into our gowns for examination by our doctor.

One of the registration clerks was offended that men were undressing and doing a cursory examination of the nuns. I told her, “I am a professional” and that I could “undress and examine a woman without me seeing anymore than if she was wearing a bathing suit.”

I would loosen and undress down to the top of the patient’s chest Place the hospital gown over her and then finish removing the blouse, brazier, etc. I would slip the gown on then start the examination to the top of the thighs. I would fold a blanket or sheet across her middle to examine her chest, abdomen, and pelvis. I would remove the slacks and skirt. It was up to the physician to finish the evaluation. The woman was covered at all times and I would preserve her dignity.

A Rose by Any Other Name

Our family had a great Aunt Rose Shipley. She lived with her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson in Charleroi, Pennsylvania. Their home was along the Monongahela River. We would visit on occasion and while the adults sat and talked, my Sister Kathy, Brother Ken, and I would sit on the cinder lined bank and watch the boats and barges go by. It was better than being cooped up inside, even though Aunt Rose was a cool old lady.

Aunt Rose had the most beautiful white hair that framed her wrinkled face with large soft curls. She had a pleasant laugh and a quick smile. It was rare that we ever saw her frown.

Sometimes she would visit my grandparent’s farm and stay for several weeks at a time. She would help cook, shell beans, peas, and bake. I can remember one time when she was helping with supper and ended up with the task of making gravy. She got frustrated and said, “Becky, there’s lumps in the damn gravy. I guess I’ll have to strain it.” That was the only time I ever heard her swear.

She always wore a dress that was lavender or had a lavender print. I was never sure whether it was her favorite color, but I do know it made her white hair look absolutely stunning.

Grandma had a long concrete front porch with cinder block Walls and pillars. It was cool in the summer and stayed dry in the winter, protected and sheltered by two tall hemlock trees. Grandma had two green Adirondack chairs, a love seat to match and a contour fitted swing. One day as Aunt Rose and Grandma were on the swing, I reached through the half-block air holes at the bottom of the wall and grabbed Aunt Rose’s ankle. She was startled, jumped up, and screamed. Just a youthful prank, but I always thought she had a twinkle in her eye when she saw me. I could be wrong, but I hope not.

When they weren’t n the porch, they were in the sitting room, not to be confused with the sitting parlor that was only used by special guests on special occasions, and watch television. Aunt Rose loved the Pirates until after winning the World Series they poured champagne over each other’s heads. When that happened, it dampened her desire to watch them and she was indifferent to their games and their standings.

For some reason I don’t remember her dying nor her funeral, so I guess that she still lives on in my memories.

Voices

Have you ever thought about the voice of the trees,

whether they’re introduced by the wind or a breeze?

Sometimes trees will whisper; other times they will whine

as the moving air travels through willow and pine.

Their spreading limbs reach up to touch the cloudless sky

talking to each breeze as it goes hurrying by.

Trees change their voices at different times of the year,

vocal cords broad-leafed, needled, or shaped like a spear.

Birch, beech, cherry, pine, hemlock, hickory, and cedar;

aspen, sycamore, fir, maple, oak, and poplar,

each sings a song loud or soft in sun and shade;

solitary, in a forest, or in a glade.

Whether clothed in green, pink or white bloom, bare, or gold.

Each has a voice; young sapling or twisted and old.

Snow Day Revisited

I know I wrote I did not mind shoveling snow,

but not so much when the weather is ten below.

Each scoop of snow seems heavier as I’m aging.

Thoughts of moving the snow become less engaging.

As snow deepens it’s not so much fun as before.

My body rebels. My tiring muscles grow sore.

My Woolrich pants have quickly become my best friend.

(At least until this bitter cold comes to an end.)

I saw the sun filter through heavy clouds today

changing from dismal charcoal to an icy gray..

Shoveling becomes less fun each time that it snows,

especially when a cold and frigid wind blows.

I pray this cold spell soon breaks and moderates,

susceptible to the winter blues it creates..

Fingers and toes chill, while cheeks and lips turn blue.

I dream of distant warm places like Kathmandu.

I am not a snow bird that hears Florida’s call,

but I cringe when the fist snowflakes begin to fall.

Snow Day, Snow Way

Some people think I’m crazy, although I don’t think it’s so.

There are certain times for me that I like to shovel snow.

Late at night ‘neath street light’s gleam; cold’s arrived and the air’s chill.

Snowflakes drift in crystal stream through the darkness calm and still.

Taking my shovel in hand, I step out into the night

to a winter wonderland where snow drifts down through the light.

The silence becomes profound. I hear each flake when they kiss

as they tumble to the ground in a steady rush and hiss.

Solitude for me to keep behind a shifting white veil,

I dig through snowdrifts deep built by icy crystals frail.

I toil alone in quiet in a world of white and black.

Sometime you ought to try it and you may keep coming back.

I don’t say it’s a pleasure. So don’t think of me as odd;

it’s a time one can treasure at peace with nature and God.

Pin Cushion

One of our physicians also practiced the ancient art of acupuncture. One afternoon as I drove to work, I developed a pounding, miserable headache. It was one of those horrible headaches that made me feel half sick to my stomach.

As I walked past him, he commented, “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’re not feeling well.”

I told him that I had a miserable headache. He said, “We’re not busy right now. Hop up on that bed and I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t know what to expect. At that point, I didn’t know that he did acupuncture. I didn’t care what he planned to do, as long as it helped to get rid of my headache. He came back to the cubicle with a small, black leather case.  As I sat there, I was wondering what in the world does he have.

He took a handful on alcohol swabs and placed them beside the case on the mattress. When he opened the case, I could see an array of what looked like thin metal wires. Taking one of the needles from the burgundy velvet lined interior, he held the “knob handle” of the needle. He cleaned the length of the wire with the alcohol swab. The handle was just a thicker part of the wire that was about the thickness of a small wooden matchstick.

Next, he selected a short, slender metal tube and inserted the needle through the opening. He told me to put my hands on my lap with my palms upwards. When I complied, he placed the tube over one of my wrists and tapped the handle with his finger. He removed the tube and the needle was stuck in my wrist. It didn’t hurt. The needle was about as thin as a human hair.

Twirling the handle, he slid the needle deeper into my wrist and then withdrew it to a shallower position. It was odd feeling. It wasn’t painful, but it, had an electrical aspect along with the sensation of pushing and pulling. He left that one wire stuck in place and went to my other wrist, repeating the process. With those two in place, he worked the antecubital spaces, but didn’t keep a needle there. He moved on to needle my knees, calves, and ankles. He finished by pricking my scalp in several places across the top of my head, front to back and side to side. When he was through, he removed the needles from my wrists.

“Wow!” I thought. “He just cut my headache in half. The pain was bearable now and I could work the night without having the feeling of nausea.” I thanked him because I felt so much better.

A few weeks later on an unusually slow afternoon shift, He was on again and said, “Come with me.”

I followed him back the hallway to the nurses’ lounge. He said, “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

He returned with the same black case that held his acupuncture needles. “I will give you a more thorough treatment for your headaches.” And he did; more needles, different spots, and I began to felt so relaxed. I just knew I would have the relief he promised.

I was sitting in one of those plastic scoop chairs. It was bright orange and as slippery as a linoleum floor to socked feet. When he finished my treatment, he packed his needles and left the room. I felt so relaxed that if someone had thrown a hand grenade in the room and yelled, “BOMB!” I’m not sure I could have moved. As it was, I was having a hard enough time staying in the chair and not slipping out of it and onto the floor.

The acupuncture treatment worked. No more headaches for me until nearly six months later and it was only a mild one.

The Lonesome Blues

I’m sorrowful and so lonesome with nothing left to lose

You’ve got me singing my baby-has-left-me blues

You’re gone, gone, gone, you’ve really gone away

I’m home alone with nothing more to say.

If these ain’t blues I’m singing, I ain’t singing the right song.

How can everything start out right and yet end up so wrong?

 

I have those lonesome, empty, with nothing left to lose blues

 That makes me want to drown myself in tears, sorrow and booze.

You’ve gone away. You’ve really gone away.

My soul is empty and it’s in decay.

If these ain’t dues I’ve been paying, what else more can be said.

My payday is long overdue. I’ve nothing left to trade.

 

The Empty Bed Blues

I couldn‘t sleep at all last night; thoughts of you filled my head.

I needed some comfort when only coldness filled my bed.

I couldn’t sleep at all last night; my bed’s empty and bare.

Your scent no longer lingers. All I do’s lay and stare.

Baby, my arms are empty; my memories are full.

Baby how could you leave me? How could you be so cruel?

 

I couldn’t sleep at all last night. Dark nightmares plagued my soul.

When you left you took my heart. Your love’s taken its toll.

I couldn’t sleep the whole night through. All night I tossed and turned.

I wanted to spark love’s fire. It was me who got burned.

Baby, our love’s just ashes; the embers have turned cold.

Baby you stole my youth, leaving me tired and old.

 

Chorus: I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I just couldn’t sleep at all.

I couldn’t sleep the whole night through. I miss the siren’s call.