Doc Quixote Part 4

Despite signs to the contrary, I am not delusional. I am aware of the current year. It is my choice to view the world from a unique perspective. The age of my corpus is not the same as the age of  my animus. The chivalry of my hero Don Quixote serves as a guide for my writing.

My aged mother, the duenna Dulce, resides in a residence for the elderly. Her physical and mental frailties are commensurate with her advanced years. We sat together in the sun room yesterday and I shared a cine of her great grandchildren dancing. Her creased face shone with joy. She was her usual pleasantly confused self. Her worsening memory, she counts as an asset, as she says that she doesn't remember the bad times. When I arrived at the elder hostel, she insists that she must attend to her hair. Only when she has brushed and combed her snow white locks, does she feel ready to face the day.

The shallowness of youth was the weapon that wounded a cherished friend. A former health giver at the hospice on the Merrimack, this sharp witted, compassionate, and scarlet haired damsel was wounded by a knave. The seniorita was betrayed by one she loved. The cad violated the trust that binds a couple beyond the formalities of the church or the state. My friend's heart will heal. My fondest wish is that someone worthy of her love will enter her life.

On arriving at the Hospice of the River Valley on a recent night, my presence was urgently requested at the bedside of one who's breathing tube had become dislodged. I rushed to the unit of intensive care and beheld a person of considerable weight. The short, thick neck and low level of oxygen gave me pause. The learned anesthesiologist, S Rao Mallampati and his associates had developed a score that predicts the difficulty in passing a breathing tube into a patient. The most challenging airway would rate a 4 on this classification. The unfortunate sufferer in front of me was a 4. The one advantage of my advanced years, is the more than three decades of experience that resides in my mens. With the assistance of the excellent nurses and respiratory therapist, I was able to insert the needed airway. I returned to my work station in the accident ward. Minutes later, the UIC called to tell me that the collar that seals the airway had failed. Once more I attended to the penitant's bedside and using a long wand placed through the defective tube, I removed that damaged hose and passed a new (carefully checked) tube over the wand.

Most nights at the Hospice of the River Valley, the penitants that seek care are few and their needs, though urgent to they and their loved ones, are usually not a threat to life or limb. My boon companions in the accident ward, the nurses and clerks, and I stand ready to offer relief, and compassion to those in need.