So Let Me Introduce to You, the One and Only Screaming Mimi

Yes. It was the end of the halcyon day, the salad day, the day of wine and roses.

An ambulance crew wheeled in Screaming Mimi. Not so much as a how-do-you-do to poor ol' Val, captive in her window bed, tethered to a pulse-ox machine on her left, and a wall-mounted oxygen spout by her nose. The crew unceremoniously yanked the dividing curtain, cutting off my view of the door and hallway and life beyond my adjustable bed. My world shrank to a window soon-to-be-shaded, a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, and a flimsy blue-patterned piece of fabric. Oh, and Hick, who was ensconced in a visitor chair in the corner under the TV.

Hick watched with his shifty eye. I hate it when he does that. He cuts his eyes toward the object of his snooping, without turning his head. As Screaming Mimi was downloaded onto her bed, Hick pantomimed the action. He held his hands about six inches apart. She's tiny. He held up his thumb and finger in the OK sign, with a hole about the size of a drinking straw, and tapped on his forearm. She's frail. He rubbed both palms on his forearms, then shucked the right palm over the left repeatedly, like a hillbilly whittlin' a pointed stick. Her skin is dry. Yeah. The most disturbing part is that I understood him. The next-to-most-disturbing part is that Hick did not realize that if he could see HER, she could see HIM.

It's a good thing Hick has superb pantomime skills, because I could not have heard him if he'd blasted words at me through a bullhorn. Screaming Mimi was in full voice. "STOP! OW! YOU'RE KILLING ME! OWWWWW! GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!" Sometimes she forwent the words, and simply shrieked. The ambulance crew was quite apologetic. So, too, the hospital staff who were observing, ready to descend upon Screaming Mimi like a Daytona 500 pit crew. My teeth were on edge. I felt sorry for the old bird.

Sometimes, first impressions are incorrect.

I thought the poor dear was in the throes of dementia. That she was disoriented. That she was addled by pain. Until I spent 47.5 hours trapped in a room with her. What I gathered from listening through the curtain was that Mimi was 84 years old, that she was in for observation because she fell, that she had some gnarly bedsores, that she thought she was upper echelon and slumming in the hospital, and that she had a very short temper. The RN and Patient Care Technician made sure Screaming Mimi was settled in her bed. They put it down as low to the floor as it would go. Screaming Mimi had some sort of a LoJack contraption upon her person. Any time she would sit up, a voice would speak out of the blue: "Do not get up. Lay back down. A nurse will be here to assist you."

Far be it from Val to poke fun at a frail woman with dementia. Screaming Mimi's behavior seemed to be more of a manipulating nature. She could remember things just fine when it suited her. Like when she told the RN, "Thank God I'm not at Barnes. That place is a shithole."

Alas, the poor RN was trying to get Screaming Mimi settled, and provide her with an upcoming supper tray. To make her comfortable, and go on about her business of tending to a floor full of patients. This was the most straight-laced of all the RNs I had during my stay. Kind of like a Marcia Brady. Reserved. Like she just wanted things to run smoothly, for nobody to die, and to get off shift so she could heave a sigh of relief.

"Are you in pain? The doctor has left orders for you to have pain medication. Do you need it now?"

"I want morphine and heroin."

"Oh. We can't give you heroin."

"Why not? They let me have it in London."

"Well, we're not regulated that way. No heroin. I'll see what your doctor has prescribed." Marcia Brady made her exit, and sent in Bryce, the patient care technician, to get the supper order.

Screaming Mimi would not choose anything from the menu. She finally asked for chicken salad. Of course she would not specify whether she wanted a salad garnished with chicken, or chicken salad in a sandwich. When asked what to drink, though, she knew exactly what she wanted.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Yes. Wine."

"Oh, we don't have any wine."

"All right. Chardonnay."

"I'm sorry. You'll have to have something else. We don't serve alcohol."

"Diet Coke. Not because I'm trying to lose weight. I can't stand the taste of that sweet stuff. I used to be a dancer, you know. You never see a fat dancer."

"We'll get you Diet Coke."

One thing for certain. Screaming Mimi LOVED Bryce. Throughout my stay, I never once heard her say a cross word or criticize him. The rest, though, would likely have had their heads mounted on pikes if Screaming Mimi had been more mobile.

Her saga continues tomorrow.