The Periwinkle Wall

If walls could talk, I would recount tales of joy accented by giggles and guffaws. Some tales are in whispers recalling sweetness and adoration, some are filled with cries of pain or joy. Then there are those filled with the howls of heartbreak.

2011 - Monday

“Rita, you must sanitize better. I found dust on the heat registers, baseboards, and lampshades. There should never be fingerprints or lip stains on the cups.”

“Why, what do you mean, Miss Xolani? Lip stains… I wiped the cup myself.”

“You did, yes, you did. I watched you do it with a rag from your apron but that is not sanitary. You graduated from my Linen Care and Sanitize Rooms education module, did you not?” The student aid nodded affirmatively. Xolani smiled at her, nodded, and walked away. Lesson imparted. She could see Rita dusting the entire room, including the neglected objects she had mentioned. Watching from the hallway, half hidden by the door, she observed Rita use a clean cloth and pour boiling water from a portable hot pot over the room’s cup, nodding in satisfaction.

Xolani, a South African descended from Zulu royalty, is the current chief of this facility, in picturesque Galena, Illinois, a female physician patiently correcting Rita.

As people go, she is generous and kind; from what I have seen and heard over the years, she is the best administrator. I look at the photo across the room that the town had placed in each room. A plaque below it says it was established in 1961. I’ve heard the tales over and over, so now I tell you: a group of hippie chicks started it and ran it as a co-op, pay-as-you-can. Eggs, vegetables, home-canned goods, manual labor, or cash were all accepted.

Go! You girls, go! Galena Umfazi Facilities. Xolani renamed the facility with The Board’s approval.

2011 - Tuesday

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Make it stop!” I see the young woman being nursed by Lana, and student aid Rita standing by for orders.

“Shhh, sweetie, it will hurt, just breathe. Let me check; open your mouth and say ‘ahh.’ The patient lies on the tightly tucked sheets of the bed, her caramel skin contrasts nicely with the pale pink sheets. She opens her mouth wide, repeating what Lana told her and Lana shakes her head sadly.

“Your tonsils are infected, my dear.”

“I have been on penicillin for two weeks. Why does it hurt so much? I can’t swallow!” Tears are rolling down her cheek. Lana looks at Rita, who immediately comes forward, spooning ice chips into the patient’s mouth.

“The ice will soothe some, but I’m afraid the doctor will confirm what I say. We must take out those tonsils. We were hoping the infection would dissipate. This is your fourth infection this year and you had two last year. Since our treatments and the medicine have not cleared up the condition, our only option now is to remove your tonsils.”

I can see the young woman is not happy about the surgery and is very nervous.

The Prettiest Wall

I am the prettiest wall in the room, but of course, I am biased. A rich periwinkle color spreads from right to left, from the floor to the ceiling above me. The wall opposite me is a creamy seafoam green. In front of the room’s door is a linen curtain dyed in broad stripes of seafoam green and periwinkle, with narrow white stripes separating the colors. It is hung from a bamboo rod attached to the ceiling, not on a track. If the drape is closed, one must just swipe it to the left to enter. It is open now so those in the hallway will see the side view of a white metal bed made up in pale pink sheets. The pillows are propped against the headboard, showing the lovely scallops of the pink pillowcases; the coverlet is eggshell white cotton, patterned with squares and swirls in the heavy machine cotton knit. Across the foot of the bed is a soft knit pink throw. A window is centered in the wall on the side of the bed furthest from the door; a tall window, with a frame of white painted around it, contrasting with the seafoam green that covers all the walls but mine.

Rita is always careful to fluff the cushion in the wooden rocking chair that sits beneath the window and straightens the periwinkle (my color!) cotton throw over its back. I believe Rita has OCD; she is constantly intricately lining up items on the nursing table. She will pull the curtains straight, stand back and look, and then fix a tiny wrinkle no one would notice. Oh, you might say she cannot be OCD if she misses dust and sometimes is lazy in cleaning, but I will disagree.

This room is cozy. If I was not a wall, I would want to lie in the bed and snuggle in. I would assuredly select these same soft colors and fabrics in my home. Peri. That’s what I call myself. I’m a wall. With ears and eyes. And stories.

2011 - Friday

A new day! I can feel the rest of the walls tingling with excitement.

“I wonder who will be next? What will we see?” my partner wall whispers to me.

“Quickly, pack the gauze! More linens, now!” Xolani is shouting the instructions to Lana, whose hands are shaking. “Give them to me, girl! What is wrong with you? This woman may die if you are not quick! Push the cloth inside her, now, fast, more! I need to find the cause.”

I’ve heard the staff talk about our dear Xolani, and how she came to be here. She was recruited by Sheila Randolph, the granddaughter of one of the hippie-chick founders, after seeing Xolani practice in her African village. Sheila was stationed in the village with the Peace Corps, and stayed after her posting time, working with Xolani. It took a bit to convince the African to come to America because of her dedication to her people. Sheila helped Xolani train a dozen to replace herself and when the women passed their rigorous testing, Xolani agreed to leave.

Oh, but wait! What is happening now?

The woman is bleeding, and the pink sheets are now beet red with her blood and tissue from the vaginal area. I hear loud cries from the newborn baby born they placed in the bassinet across the room. A male nurse arrives to care for the infant, but Xolani conscripts him into helping stabilize the mother. “Here, Ron, massage the uterus while I get those arteries to contract. The bleeding is slowing so we will wait a minute and observe her.” I watch as Ron massages the woman’s belly and she cries out in pain.

“It’s OK, we must massage you after birth. I can’t do it too gently or your uterus won’t contract. Try to relax, I know it is uncomfortable.” Ron is an expert at this and Dr. Xolani has him assist frequently with her patients.

The new mama whimpers as Ron massages her. “It hurts, it hurts, stop. I’ll do it myself,” I hear her hiss to him. He steps back and guides her hands in the proper technique. The minute he leaves the room, she stops. Lana is changing the bed sheets beneath the patient, one side at a time, and tells her to scoot to one side of the bed. With difficulty, the patient tries to do as instructed and is only successful when Lana lifts her and places her on the side of the mattress. Lana tucks the sheets tightly, smoothing them with her hand, then tucks the patient into the bedding, adjusting the pillows for her.

Xolani returns and checks the woman for bleeding, finding none.

“You are okay now. Lana, make sure her pads are changed frequently. I will check her again in ninety minutes.” Lana nods and the doctor leaves.

“Your son is hungry; do you want to try nursing him?” Lana smooths the mama’s forehead and smiles at her. When she agrees, Lana shows her how to hold the baby to her breast, like a football on her forearm in front of her. “Yes, that’s right, hold him facing you. See, he is rooting for the nipple, push down on your breast a bit so he can latch on.”

The baby is making suckling noises, and the mama grimaces as the pressure on her nipple increases. The tender skin must toughen some and Lana explains the process to her as the baby fills up with the liquid gold colostrum. He falls asleep at the same time the mama does and Lana puts the baby back in his bassinet, which is now next to his mama’s bed. The baby whimpers as he passes gas while Lana pats his back, then quiets.

He has the most hair on his head I have ever seen on a baby in this room, dark and glossy.

2011 - Sunday

Rita is cleaning the room. I creak to alert her she missed a spot on the wall near the baseboard of my wall. She leans down and wipes with a disinfectant rag, then moves to the foot of the bed. There are some faint spots on the linoleum, so she pushes the bed to the side and finds the clotted blood that hid under the bed feet. Quickly wiping the floor, the bed is put back and I smell the lemon oil she is diffusing into the air. She will leave this natural germicide emitting for twenty minutes when her timer buzzes. The diffuser is the final step before the room is ready for a new patient.

2014 - Monday

“My dear, it is up to you. Do you understand? No one can decide but you.” Xolani is kneeling and looking up at the young woman in blue jeans. The patient is wringing her hands, twisting the numerous stackable rings on all her fingers. I can see an elaborate tattoo on the back of her neck and as she turns, her entire arm is a sleeve of tats. Pale brown hair falls in ringlets around her face, her massive curls pulled back in a bright green plastic headband. She jumps to her feet, tatted knees sticking out of the holes in her jeans.

“I don’t know, I don’t know! I can’t think. Henry was supposed to be here; he said he would meet me.”

“Is Henry the father?”

She shakes her head no.

This is very interesting! So, who is Henry? I find out immediately.

“Henry is my best friend. We talked about what to do but I can’t decide yet. He is a genius, way over Mensa levels. He can figure out anything. Harvard, Cambridge, Yale, and MIT, all recruited him. He turned them all down to stay with me. He may leave me once I decide,” she responded dejectedly, chewing her lip.

Xolani is listening intently, as am I. This story is intriguing.

“Rosalie, you can come back. Bring Henry with you; you don’t have to decide today.”

“When is the last day?”

Xolani looks at the calendar as Lana sticks her head into the room. Rosalie is watching the doctor but raises her eyebrows at Lana. “Those are pretty curtains,” Rosalie remarks, waving a hand toward the window, at the pale green Swiss Dot sheer curtains. Xolani patiently waits, motioning Lana to silence.

She wants this girl to have the time she needs and is intent on not letting Lana interrupt the moment.

“When is the last day, please?” Rosalie asks again.

“March 20th.”

“The Spring Equinox. Fitting,” Rosalie answers.

Interesting! I wonder since she knows the Spring Equinox date, perhaps she is Wiccan. She could just be into rituals; there is a rose quartz heart hanging around her neck. Oh, it doesn’t matter, she just needs Henry, it seems, and Henry is a no-show today.

“Beautiful heart, there, Rosalie,” Xolani tells her, lightly touching it.

“Henry said rose quartz helps to bond with the baby,” she replied. She leans away from the doctor, moving her knees sideways, getting her feet under her, and leaps up. “I have to go.”

She’s gone in a flash, pushing past Lana who was still in the doorway.

“Dr.?” Lana says and Xolani shakes her head sadly and leaves the room.

2014 - Tuesday

The room is empty right now and enjoying the quiet, I watch sunbeams dance across the linoleum. This week, during the night, the room brightens with a waxing gibbous moon. The calm of this room contrasts with the bustling work of the clinic. I hear footsteps, clattering carts, birthing pain screams, sobs of worried parents, and rattling when nurses prepare pill doses for patients.

I treasure these quiet patient-less days and so does Rita. Sneaking naps on the tight pink sheets, her chest rises and falls, as she emits whispery snores. Rita doesn’t nap long, never longer than thirty-five minutes, and then she smooths her light gray uniform, splashes her face in the sink (afterward drying the sink fastidiously), and peers out the window for a moment. Her manicured fingers then straighten the Dotted Swiss curtains and off she goes to her work duties, no one the wiser. Well, I’m wise to Lana’s naps. I wonder from my flat periwinkle wall if Xolani suspects or even cares; maybe she encourages catnaps for her workers, but surely not in the clinic sheets?

2014 - Thursday

Henry is sitting on the edge of the bed, his arm around Rosalie’s shoulders; her head rests on his shoulder and she is sobbing.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, Rosie, it’s okay.”

“Nothing is okay, Henry! I am destroying something.”

“Rosie, you are not destroying. Life comes, life goes.” He touches her belly. “This. This is living off you – it does not have life without you. You can take it out. It is okay. Either way. In. Out.” He stares into her eyes deeply, his hands cupping her cheeks. “In. Or out. We talked about this, remember? So, tell me, Rosie, a soul enters a body when? What do you believe?"

Oh, so Henry is a philosopher! This is the best conversation I have ever gotten to eavesdrop on. I feel my lower wall begin to pull up as if I’m going to step closer.

“After.”

“After what, Rosie?”

After what? Is he bullying her into agreeing with his philosophies?

“I believe after birth; the soul chooses its parents, and enters the body after birth! We’ve talked about this, Henry. That doesn’t make it easier though. It’s in me, not you! Damn Russell!”

“Well now, Rosie, it does take two, you know, so you are responsible also.”

“No, no, it was Russell! He drugged me, I told you that. He knew I forgot my pill the week before, then he drugged me. Selfish pig; now I pay, no harm to him!”

“Rosie, you could have taken the day-after pill, right?” He smiles gently at her. She stands up, pulling away from him.

“So, Mr. Genius, it IS my FAULT? You are not my friend; you are an ASSHOLE.”

Wow, that was horribly blunt. I mean, I’m on Henry’s side. He has been kind, and gentle, understanding. He just pointed out facts.

Xolani enters the room right as Rosalie shouts at Henry. “Well, you two, what is going on here? We can’t have you shouting obscenities, Rosalie. Tell me, are you ready for your procedure?” She looks from one to the other.

I’m holding my breath for Rosie’s answer. ‘Procedure’ sounds ominous.

Henry stares at the floor, unobtrusive, giving Rosie space to consider and answer.

“Souls enter the body when born, not before,” Rosalie says clearly. Xolani just looks at her, with no expression. Henry, immobile, does nothing to help his friend. It is her choice. Xolani walks to the medical table and begins preparations. I smell alcohol and a hint of lemon.

Rosalie is staring at me, deep in thought. If only I could talk, the things I would tell her.

Decisions

“Please, all of you leave me alone for a few minutes, okay?” Henry and Dr. Xolani nod and I watch silently as they walk out.

She places her forehead on me, gently banging it against my periwinkle broadside.

“Once I do it, I can never change it. But if I don’t do it, everything changes,” Rosalie whimpers.

I feel her wet tears. I wish walls could talk; then I could share stories of those that have lived and died here.

Like the woman named Phyllis who died in the original bed that used to be here. Phyllis was ancient, and her family gathered telling her they loved her. She sat up and said, “All there is, is love. Just love. That is all you need to know.” She laid her head on the pink pillowcase, sighed, and died.

Or the toddler girl with dark red hair who slipped into death, while her father rocked her gently, her mother on her way. His sobs reverberated after his little girl’s death, waiting for his wife...and on arrival, her heartbreaking shrieks echoed in the room.

And the twins that were born in another wing, moved here with the mother to settle in under my watch. They slept for twenty-four hours, all three exhausted. The daddy fell asleep in the rocker and Lana covered him with an extra white coverlet from the linen cupboard down the hall. Xolani came to check on this new family in the morning and told the husband all three of his girls could go home. After they left, the room was returned to normal by Rita and her OCD fastidiousness.

Or the teen girl that was in this room for almost a month, recovering from a motorcycle accident. Xolani attended to her after the surgeon released her to recovery so her pelvic contusions could be managed by this clinic. She counseled the girl to always wear a helmet and appropriate clothing but never told her to stop riding. I heard the parents lecturing the girl and could see she had tuned them out. When Xolani entered the room, a smile lit up her bruised face and she listened intently to the doctor’s instructions.

I would tell Rosalie that it will be okay no matter what she chooses and that Henry seems to be a good friend.

Henry enters the room and places his hand on Rosalie’s shoulder. “Sweet Rosie?” She shrugs off his touch, so he moves away. Still resting on my wall shoulder, Rosalie puts her hand where my heart would be if I were not a wall.

I want to tell her how much I love her courage and intelligence and that Henry does as well. How wonderful it would be to have the ability to say be kind to Henry, he is not Russell, and he has stayed with you - he supports you. Desperately wanting to embrace her, sadly my ability is restricted to providing a resting spot on my periwinkle broadness.

I gather from the decreased light through the window that the sun is setting. The day is ending. Rosalie has decided.

How do I know? She lifted her head from my chest and turned to face Henry, closing the gap between them, and taking his hand. He lifts her hand and kisses the palm, gazing into her eyes. Rosalie nods at him, and they exit the room.

“Is Dr. Xolani available? I have made my decision,” Rosalie calls out to Lana.

The two are speaking quietly to Xolani near the room’s door, free will putting their fate in motion.