I settled on the torture chair as best I could covering myself
with a leftover sheet and plastic pillow wedged in the crook of my
arm. The lounger couldn’t be moved within range of his sightline,
so I announced when I lay down, “Lewis, I’m laying right here,”
so he’d know where I was wouldn’t worry.
need something, Lewis?”
He craned his head back, and I unbundled, scrambling out
the wall facing him, but something beyond the wall, something I
could not see.
I settled back in only to repeat the scrambling, and in
this manner an hour or two went by. Sometimes, he would be
clutching the railing, the other searching space as if something
unseen was just beyond his grasp. I’d ask him what he needed, and
he’d tell me, “I’ve got to piss. Hurry.”
An overwhelming need to urinate would overtake him,
and there’d be no time to call for a nurse. I’d fumble for the
canister with the angled neck that permitted urine in but kept it
out frame—and reposition body parts into the canister so he could
relieve himself without getting wet. I’d stand there, holding him,
and stare at the linen closet. Usually, after a few minutes, he’d
give up and sigh in frustration. “It’s okay, Jay,” he’d moan, unable
to make it happen, but sometimes there’d be success and a dark
brown liquid would pool at the bottom of the canister. I’d bundle
told me to get some rest.
At about 4:30 a.m. I crept to the door. He was breathing
heavy and his eyes were closed. I slipped out and walked to the
coffee for myself. I crept back in the room, and as I settled back
in my chair, he called out again. He couldn’t have slept more than
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