Condition Other Than Normal: Finding Peace In a World Gone Mad. Gary Tetterington
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during an angry flight and safari is always welcome. A hospital won’t intentionally harm you, you have no worldly cares, if you lay back and let them go, watch T.V., cut - up with the other patients and get stoned every 4 hrs. on good dope.
Also, when I have been gravely ill and knackered, the law couldn’t touch me, as I have always known and appreciated full well. Times were, when I was laid – up and ailing and it was all I could do to raise a weak and detractive smile at a lawman and maybe give the chump a feeble wave, as he was leaving my semi - private room. Which is a frustrating and bitter pill for any copper to have to swallow. An opportune sanctuary, such as a hospital has to offer, is hard to come by and other than the indisposed people who often inhabit such places and tended to bother me some, I am always prepared to do a short stay in a hospital. When I need to think and find my place on this pretty planet once more. To release my demons…
Stanton nurses were ladies so fine. Special. Unique. Closer to God. Yes.
Except for Dietrich. Dietrich was the head nurse in ’76, in Stanton Y.K. Hospital. She was the boss. She had a head on her like a bastard pig and she was hard to look at. No comedy in her world. Dietrich had a homely face and deep and timeless eyes and I easily pictured her in ’42, in charge of one of those special camps, chief of experimentation and comfortable in her chosen profession.
Dietrich had brass balls in ’76. Her shift was a well – oiled machine, with every move called and calculated and no faults or slips. Her nurses were on strings and she was the master puppeteer. On her tour of duty, no one dared die without her permission. Dietrich was some kind of horrible authority and absolutely necessary to Stanton Y.K. Hospital, in 1976.
Dietrich hated me. Which was largely due to the fact, as mentioned, when I did check into her hospital, I was real close to being an authentic crackers and crazy person. Because of my rough and unrefined condition and introduction into her methodical world, she seemed to be forever casting a suspicious eye in my direction.
When I was admitted to Stanton, half – smashed, I could tell, straight off, Dietrich had wished for nothing finer, than for her to have been allowed to run a full – scale research examination over my entire body and in my own amoral way, I too would have enjoyed an odd and unusual session with her. Like…
Strip her down, naked, except for her white cap, her white nylons and her white shoes. Bind her securely and facedown on a white sheet, on a white bed, in a white room. Then, go at her with a length of studded white leather belt and administer a sound and solid drubbing about her ribs and shoulders. Lambaste and pummel her into submission. She could have taken it. She may have enjoyed it. She may have enjoyed it too much. The humiliation and degradation may have been a welcome and satisfying diversion and she may have wanted more…
Hell, after a performance like that, Dietrich would have flushed with gratitude and satisfaction, at having found a man, a real man who knew and understood her needs. It would have been damned difficult to dump a dog like Dietrich after an operation like that and she would have followed me to the ends of the earth.
Anyway, 3 days go by and I’m positively laid back on my bed, arms above my head and sporting a white bandage over my right eye, when in breezed one of my nurses, Laurie, pushing the wanderer. I pulled myself into a sitting position and even with my one good eye, I could see in a trice, the man was not of this world. He appeared to be loaded on something outlandish and not in control. The young lady parked and placed him on the bed facing me and beat a hasty retreat. For a short while we stared at each other, both of us with arms crossed and legs dangling and moving slowly. The stranger was clearly confused and plainly puzzled. He was disorientated and in turmoil. What could I say? Perhaps the man was dangerous. A duteous nurse Dietrich’s portent and admonition that I behave myself. How was I to know?
The man spoke. “Where am I?”
“In Y.K.”
“Bullshit.”
“Straight goods.”
“I’m in Frobisher Bay.”
“Sorry pal. You got it wrong this time.”
“Truth?”
“Truth.” A pause…
“Well then, we must have a drink.”
Now, this was a conundrum worth considering. I was temporarily baffled. I mean, fine, let’s have a drink. But where, in our exciting and antiseptic environment, were we going to find one? That was the question. And another thing…
Dietrich was at an exceptional peak of doubt and suspicion that day since 3 of my rigorous and ruffian friends had almost caused a free – for – all on the ward earlier the same afternoon. Another tale but suffice to say, Dietrich was eyeballing me with extreme contempt and diligence, on the off chance those uncouth acquaintances of mine should return and slip me a fix and a rig. I would have to be careful.
Because… my water head roommate provided the answer to the question. The first clue was when I noticed a large steamer trunk, the kind people who mattered, quality people, used years ago, when embarking on a ship, to travel around the world. Amongst the curiosity and caution of the man’s arrival, I had missed this piece of luggage.
The man inaugurated a deep exploration thru that big old chest, sniggling and giggling and all the while tossing clothing and other possessions across the room and onto the floor. At one point, he was down so low; all I could see of him were the soles of his feet.
“Ripper!” was my response, as the man, now my man, came up with a large bottle of booze. Down he went again and 2 dives later, that ol’ salt buddy of mine had brought up the sum amount of 3 bottles of fine vodka. The rush was on and our room craved O.J. I felt like I was sailing. I felt like Jaques Cousteau.
Typically, we hadn’t put back the 1st flask before we began walking the hallways and passing out and distributing a liberal touch of that damned vodka, here and there, to anyone who wanted or needed it. Word spread quickly. The T.V. room was expeditiously converted and became a bee – bop, Mardi – Gras saloon. Twenty or thirty people, each and every one with a different and debilitating illness, were showing full appreciation and were tanked to the tits and having fun. Good times.
The fevered and frenzied were swaying and swearing. The spastics were throwing off their crutches and striving to walk. The sightless could see. The mutes were making animal noises and trying to talk. The deaf were paying attention. It was certainly a diversion from mundane and commonplace tedium and it was a scene to behold.
I was somewhat shickered myself, crouched down at the back of the room, observing Stanton Y.K. Hospital loose and liberated and thinking, ‘Damn! This circus is not going to last long.’
I knew that fantastic array of stunts was doomed by the way one nurse, Carrie, was leaning stiffly against a far wall, her eyes white and wide with shock and I knew what she was thinking. ‘Incredible! Outrageous! On my shift!’
For sure it was done when my favorite nurse, Pearline, walked over to where I was hunched down and nervously inquired if there was anything she could get for me, “like more O.J. to go with your vodka?” Ouch!
Things happened fast. Everyone was dispensed and dispersed to their rooms and strapped and buckled to their beds. A speedy search conducted by nurse Dietrich turned up our last bottle of vodka. The little hummer had been tucked neatly and elusively beneath my pillow, while its companion bottles had found their ways safely aboard the low – slung roof of Stanton Y.K. Hospital. Dietrich was highly adept at finding contraband. It was part of her job description and a condition of her employ. I could as well have had that last and lonely bottle stashed up my ass and inevitably, she would have found it.
The comedy of the situation was correct and positively inspired. I have always had a knack for well - expressed insubordination and I’ve usually managed to jink and juke, to circumvent and avoid serious retribution. Evidence and attest, this pen is still moving intelligently, after all the years, flowing with the flotsam and jetsam of all the years.
The aftermath and mortification of the party was worthwhile. Dietrich, the good ol’ gal,