MEMORIAL DAY AT THE VA

Memoir: How To Make A Difference On Memorial Day.

In the early 80’s a man moved to Portland from New York City. An Oregon man.

He moved in with the best girl he’d ever known.

Up until then.

She was THE ONE, if one ever existed.

Up until then.

Keep in mind those who think there is only one ‘the one’ don’t date much.

Everyone is The One at first, otherwise why bother?

The One is always the one in Portland.

He found a job as orderly at the VA, the old Portland VA, the one that looks derelict when you turn onto Sam Jackson Drive off Terwilliger Blvd.

The one that looks Civil War vintage, but that’s impossible.

The new orderly worked the urology/orthopedic ward on the second floor.

One side had man-gear problems; the other had bone problems from too much manliness.

The orderly had been an Army medic. Orderly duties were a snap compared to ER work.

He took to it like a machine.

Strip and make beds? Like a machine. A high speed machine.

Deal with patient requests? Every time, whatever it took, starting with kindness.

He was the orderly other orderlies wanted to be; an orderly’s orderly.

One morning he tore into a four bed room on the urology side.

Three beds needed changing, one still had a man in it, probably waiting on surgery.

He stripped and made the first bed. Hospital corners, like the ones your Drill Sergeant ripped apart if they weren’t just right.

Halfway through the second bed a voice boomed off the walls.

“HELL OF A JOB FOR A MAN TO DO.”

A Memorial Day patient in the fourth bed.

Strong thick arms resting above the sheets, maybe forty five, flat top haircut.

The orderly continued making the bed.

“NO MAN, NO REAL MAN, WOULD STOOP TO CHANGING BEDS.”

It was the orderly and patient in the room with the door open.

The orderly finished the second bed and changed the third quick time.

“MY BED’S FINE. NO CHANGING MY SHEETS UNTIL I’M OUT.”

The orderly turned to the patient and said, “I’ll finish here, then we’ll see.”

The patient rustled his sheets.

“I’M GOOD. I’M TELLING YOU I’M GOOD.”

The orderly checked the chart on the clipboard hanging from the fourth bed. The patient flinched.

“You’re right. You’re going to surgery. While you’re gone I’ll change your sheets so you won’t come back and get an infection.”

He pulled his blanket up.

“MY SHEETS ARE FINE.”

“Sounds good.”

He left for surgery, a penile implant, and came back groggy.

And slightly violent.

Some guys want to fight coming out of anesthesia.

Another orderly, a former doctor’s wife who lost everything in a bad divorce, tied him down.

She had the restraints ready all the time.

He thrashed and yelled until he was sedated.

The first orderly stayed with him. He’d seen it before, patients going off the deep end and tied up.

“What happened?” the patient asked later.

“Can you hear me? I figure you were yelling earlier because you didn’t have your hearing aids.”

“Wait a minute, I’ll put them in.”

He reached for the side table.

“Guys come in here afraid. Just like you. You yelled. Now you know. Guys are guys. They get their work done and come out angry. But they don’t remember. Some of the staff here likes to tie guys down. You’re not the first.”

“Why did you stay? Your shift has to be done. I’m a mailman. We know shift stuff.”

“For too many, this is a life changing experience. They lose control and give up on the rest of their lives. They never get untied. It doesn’t have to be that way. You had a bad reaction. That’s all.”

“Why me?”

“Listen, you weren’t any different than others. It’s Memorial Day. I’m not the orderly you expect, but I’m the one you needed. I’ve heard it all. You’re not the first to wonder what I’m doing here.”

“What are you doing here. I’m from Roseburg. You look like a Roseburg guy.”

“I’m starting over. Start over for me, start over for you. It’s all good. That’s the difference. You’ll be okay. Hear me?”

“I do.”

“You can hear me?”

“What?”

“Can you hear me?”

“I heard that.”

“Be. Careful. Did you hear that? Be careful. Memorial Day careful.”

His wife came the next day.

They walked down the hall together, a huge bandage on his crotch pushing apart his hospital gown.

“He’s doing so well,” she said to the bandage.

“He’s been great the whole time,” the orderly said.

He nodded to the patient.

“Happy Memorial Day.”