Tea Party #17 ~ Nonfiction
Toys, Robert Fuentes larger version
The Black Sticky Stuff That Band-Aids Leave Behind | Felix Lucero
“Hello. My name is Karen, and I’m going to be your personal nurse today.”
My focus quickly shifted to this nurse, with her fey personality, shoulder-length blond hair and green eyes. Her pants were maroon and her shirt had hundreds of tiny flowers printed on it.
“How you doing today, honey? I know you probably could be doing better.”
“I’m fine, but I’ll be better when the doctor tells me what’s wrong with my heart.”
“Try not to worry. You’re going to be fine.” She checked my temperature and blood pressure, then noticed the dried blood on my arm. I had forgotten about it.
“Does your IV hurt?”
“Only when I move my arm. That’s why I keep it stiff like a board.”
“Well, relax and I’ll fix it for you.” Her smile was comforting. She carefully removed the tape and gauze that covered the IV. I watched the tiny, thin line that was protruding from under my skin disappear as she pulled the needle out. She reached for a package of what looked like baby wipes. They were warm. Her gloved hand cleaned every inch of my arm, even the black, sticky stuff that band-aids leave behind when you wear them for too long. With her index finger, she slowly traced the outline of the welt left behind by the handcuffs attached to my wrist.
“Are you going home soon?”
“Yes.”
*
I lied to Nurse Karen that day, but I don’t know why. I think I was afraid to disappoint her. She seemed to genuinely care if I was getting out of prison soon, and I dreaded the look in her eyes if the answer was no. At the time, I failed to recognize how the uniforms and chains I wore did more than distinguish me as a prisoner in public and potentially alert people to stay away. The orange jumpsuit and chains also protected me. I could hide behind a wall and judge people in return for judging me, collecting their accusing stares as evidence and finding them guilty without even trying to understand their experience or perspective. I wasn’t able to hide from Nurse Karen, because she saw me. She seemed to have the forgiveness of a mother, which forced me to stand accountable for violating the moral conscience of our family, like a child standing before a broken window while his mom explains the reasons for not throwing the ball in the house. Sometimes bigotry is easier to except than kindness.
After my test results, the doctor said I would be fine. While his words brought temporary relief, the thought of where I would head back to left me in a melancholy state. I walked out of my room like a person with his shoelaces tied together. Nurse Karen waved goodbye and wished me good luck. I smiled and waved as much as a person can with their hands chained to their waist. I imagine that I looked like that child who was singing and acting out that “I’m a Little Teacup” song. I stood up straight, with my torso tilted to the side and one leg slightly off the ground. It was painful, but her smile made it well worth it.
In the elevator, I stood between the two linebacker guards. Before reaching the first floor, the doors of the elevator slowly opened. Standing before us was a couple with their daughter. The look on the parents’ faces was unmistakable this time: unadulterated fear. They didn’t move or speak, not even to say that they’d wait for the next elevator. They just stood there, clinging to their child and staring at me as if I were Hannibal Lecter from Silence of the Lambs. The little girl smiled at me before the elevator door closed. She reminded me so much of my niece, who had just learned how to say, “I wub you, uncle.”