Part 5 (1/2)
”Tuesday. Today is Tuesday,” he said a little louder.
”TUESDAY?”
”Yes,” he answered, and nodded at the same time. ”Today is Tuesday.”
”ARE YOU SURE TODAY IS TUESDAY?”
Don Fidencio stared at his watch, focusing on the enlarged numbers and the date. ”Yes,” he said more confidently. ”Tuesday, the first of February.”
”THEY BROUGHT ME IN ON A TUESDAY.”
”Pues, that must have been another Tuesday.”
The One With The Hole In His Back raised his cowboy hat and scratched his head, pus.h.i.+ng the wisps of white hair to one side.
”LAST TIME I ASKED THE NURSE WHAT DAY IT WAS, SHE SAID TUESDAY. EVERY TIME I ASK, THEY TELL ME THE SAME THING: 'TUESDAY. TODAY IS TUESDAY.' YOU TELL ME, HOW MANY TUESDAYS CAN THERE BE? ARE THERE NO MORE DAYS OF THE WEEK? DID THEY CHANGE THE CALENDAR SINCE THEY PUT ME IN HERE? HOW CAN IT ALWAYS BE THE SAME? TUESDAY, TUESDAY, 'TODAY IS TUESDAY,' THAT'S ALL THEY EVER TELL ME.”
Don Fidencio looked blankly at him.
”Ask tomorrow and I bet you get a different answer.”
The One With The Hole In His Back flicked his wrist as he turned away.
This was the only time of day Don Fidencio saw his neighbor outside of their room. They served him his meals in bed and he didn't spend any time in the recreation room or out on the patio. While in the hospital healing from his hip surgery, he had developed a bedsore on his backside. By the time he arrived at Amigoland, the bedsore had worsened enough that his body now needed to be rotated from one side to the other in order to relieve any pressure on the wound. Every two hours an aide came to turn him partially onto his side and then slip a couple of thick pillows under him so he would stay propped up in that position. The One Who Likes To Kiss Your Forehead stopped by once a day to change the dressing. A few weeks earlier, she'd come around, given The One With The Hole In His Back his usual kiss on the forehead, and forgotten to shut the retractable curtain all the way. Don Fidencio barely had to lean back to see the bedsore was located near the tailbone and appeared to be about the size of a fist, with the exposed meat infected around the edges, as if a small animal with very sharp teeth had spent the night gnawing out a hole. He winced as he pulled away from the curtain, cursing himself for not minding his own d.a.m.n business.
”Okay, Mr. Cavazos, it's your turn now.” The One With The Puffy Cheeks crouched down and pulled the old man's wheelchair closer.
”LEAVE ME ALONE.”
”Come on, Mr. Cavazos, this is going to be fun,” The One With The Puffy Cheeks said, stretching his big face into a smile. ”Don't you want to have fun?”
”THIS IS FUN FOR YOU, TO TORTURE AN OLD MAN?”
”We just want to make you feel better, sir.”
”THEN YOU SHOULD LEAVE ME ALONE.”
It took both therapists to lift him from his wheelchair up to the specialized walker. They helped him place his forearms on the padded armrests and wrap his hands around the two foam-covered handles. Once he was positioned, he gazed down at his fluffy moccasins.
”You have to look up, Mr. Cavazos. Up at me,” The One With The Puffy Cheeks said, facing him, ready to walk backward. The second therapist was standing behind the walker, holding on tightly to the cinch they had strapped around the old man's chest. ”With your head up, Mr. Cavazos, like you and me are dancing a polka.”
”YOU THINK THIS IS EASY?”
”Nothing comes easy, Mr. Cavazos. We all have to work hard to see results.”
The old man sighed and took a couple more tentative steps.
”Spread your legs out a little, sir, and stand up more straight. You're leaning too much on the walker.”
”DON'T BE TELLING ME WHAT TO DO.” He took another two paces, stepping pigeon-toed, and barely moved beyond where they had started. He was leaning most of his weight on the armrests and his back end was hanging low, as if he were carrying an anvil inside his diaper.
Don Fidencio stood up to leave. If he was going to waste his morning sitting around, he preferred to do it in his own room. He had already grabbed hold of the walker when The Filipina Who Looks Like A Boy came up to him and stood a couple of inches from his face.
”And good morning to you, Mr. Rosales. How are you feeling today, sir?”
”Good morning,” he said as he strained to read the name st.i.tched on her baggy scrubs. He had never met a person named Mandy, but he guessed it must be a woman's name. She was small, like a woman or a frail boy. The scrubs were too big on her and he couldn't tell if she had a pair of chiches in there somewhere.
The Filipina Who Looks Like A Boy helped him sit back down, then gave him a long rubber cord with handles on both ends. He held one of the handles in his right hand as she hooked the other handle around his right shoe.
”You remember how we do these, Mr. Rosales? These are the ones for your arms.” She demonstrated by standing in front of him and curling her skinny little arm toward her chest. ”It's easy, right? Can you do ten like that for me, sir?”
He nodded, not really sure what the girl had just asked him, but he agreed so she would stop with all her questions.
”One... two... three... very good, Mr. Rosales, very good... four... five...”
He continued on when she turned to help one of the other therapists with a resident. He wasn't quite sure how pulling a rubber cord up and down was going to help one bit; the problem was with the strength in his legs, not his arms. But this was about the only thing there was to do at this hour, unless he wanted to go back to the recreation room to watch the talk shows with their guests that didn't interest him, or take part in some silly group activity like playing volleyball with a balloon, or singing and clapping with The Jesus Christ Loves Everybody Women who came around every morning, tempting people with their free doughnuts. At least here he thought he could show the therapists how much he had improved, and then, G.o.d willing, they might tell the other ones to give him back his canes. And if he got his canes back, he was that much closer to leaving this place.
”So good, Mr. Rosales. Very strong,” The Filipina Who Looks Like A Boy said, leaning in close to his face. ”Can you do ten more for me now, the same way?”
If she wanted him to do twenty, he didn't know why she didn't say this from the beginning. She needed to make up her mind, instead of expecting him to follow her commands like some trained animal.
”Eight, nine, and... ten! Very good, sir!”
Next she wanted him to keep his arm curled and extend his leg, stretching the rubber cord in the other direction. This didn't feel any more strenuous than the first exercise.
”Three... four... way to go, Mr. Rosales... five... six...” She patted him on the arm. ”You're doing very good, sir.”
After a while he lost himself in the singsong way she counted off the repet.i.tions, and then counted them off again when he did the extra ten she asked for. He could have been up to fifteen repet.i.tions or he could have been up to seventy-eight, he knew to stop only because she told him to and took away the cord and replaced it with something else, like the big yellow ball that he was supposed to hold between his legs and squeeze, over and over, as if he were a chicken laying an enormous yellow egg. None of it made any sense to him, the squeezing, the curling, the extending. All he knew was there was a time when his arms and legs were so strong that he could walk the whole day, sunup to sundown, even if he'd had to deliver the mail while carrying this skinny filipina on his back. And now here he was, doing these exercises so he could hold on to what little of him was left and maybe someday take this with him when he got out of here.
”Last exercise, Mr. Rosales,” she said suddenly. ”Over here, sir, on the table.”
Her voice had startled him. He looked up when she took away the big yellow ball and gently grabbed hold of his hands to help him stand.
”Don't forget your walker, Mr. Rosales. Remember, no walking without the walker.”
He shuffled across the room toward the matted table. He parked the walker to one side and sat on the edge of the exercise station, waiting for the girl to help him lift his feet so he could lie flat.
”I'm going to take your baseball cap and put it right over here so you don't forget it, Mr. Rosales.”
He lay still as she hung the cap on one of the handles of the walker. The mat felt just as firm as his mattress back in the room.
”Almost done, sir,” she said a little louder. ”Don't fall asleep on me, okay?”
She lifted his left leg off the mat, then gently bent the leg in the direction of his chest, stopping when he moaned, then extended it a ways and lifted it up a few inches.
”Can you move your leg down, sir? Pus.h.i.+ng against my hand?”