By Charlotte K. Jarmy

Reflections

After a descent into madness, I believe I am back to reality! It all began on the day before Independence Day when I lost most of my independence but did see stars. Due to my own carelessness, I slipped out of my untied shoe and fell backward on my ceramic tile kitchen floor with a crash that should have cracked my skull and the foundation of my house. Neither happened, but I broke something far more important - my hip bone. As usual, the paramedics were wonderful, optimistic and skillful.

I opted for a fully-awake, partially numbed operation so I could have control of my mind. Where did I get that idea! I listened to the chatter of nurses and other medical personnel, feeling control to be in the hands of a charming, white-haired Dr. Smiley. What a perfect name for a humorous man whose first words every day were, “Can you wiggle your toes?” Unbeknownst to me, the meds had messed up my perception of reality. For some strange reason, I accused everyone of being part of a conspiracy to control my head. The genesis of that piece of idiocy was in a letter my cousin had sent to me about a game plan to take away the anxieties of a person facing an operation.

The letter consisted of dozens of questions a doctor would ask a patient about every worry he/she had, including shyness, personal relationships and other details. Now I wonder if that letter really existed. Supposedly everyone in the patient’s life know about this- except the patient.

I questioned every aide, checked out name tags and refused medicine. If someone smiled at my questions, I said, “Aha! This one is not a good actor.” I sent home my beloved husband, refusing to accept his explanation, “You just had a major operation and the narcotics have confused you.” I treated my brother’s protestations the same way. It took three to four days for my suspicions to die down. Where was the secret entry door to Kaiser? What happened to the fresh sign over the door?

I had a private room and plenty of time to brood about the plot. Was the old groaning man down the corridor part of it all, even though he only groaned hoarsely, “Mama! Where are you now?” Where was the cool African-American woman who offered me one pill at a time? My doctor looked puzzled when I told him he must be part of the game. Gradually, more and more people showed up as normal aides and nurses: Bob, the white-haired quipster who made me laugh; Nelson, the friendly aide who walked with quick strides, ready to be social even at 2 a.m.

I’m writing from my second facility, The Menlo Park Place where everyone looks normal, the food is just bearable and my greatest struggle is to learn all the names of people who pop into my room with a pleasant, “Good morning! How are you doing?” The answer lingers in the air, “Well, I’m not as crazy as I was a few days ago.’ One thing remains sadly the same: the plaintive voice of a sick old man who shouts all night long. This time it’s, “Help! Save me.” Last night he added one more phrase after a few minutes of silence. In a long, drawn out whisper he said, “Oh God-d-d.”

I cried again for the many sick who call out endlessly and never hear an answer. I’ll try to remember when my world is sunny and sweet again.

Charlotte Kaye Jarmy is a Los Altos resident and longtime contributor to the Town Crier.