Rosebud Room 205

Chapter 1: Room 205 I have never been so fucked, but this is my last chance to hopefully reach someone. I don’t know how long the battery on this thing will last but I had to try. Even though the likelihood is I will never be believed, I have to try and use this lifeline.

My day started normally at the nursing home with its veneer of fake cheer and nauseating combo of smells of antiseptic with hints of piss and shit.The scent assaults me every time I cross the threshold as I trudge to my basement office to find out my schedule for the day.Hatred doesn’t fully convey how I feel about this place. Yes I hate every second of time I spend within these walls, but the hatred isn’t due to the patients themselves. Humanity is sucked out at an alarming rate by monotonous tasks which never result in changes for the patients or feelings of accomplishment. I feel like Sisyphus rolling that rock up the hill. My naive dream of helping people as a speech therapist has been replaced by endless days of patients choking on water, wiping chins, working with patients whose memories rival those of a goldfish and never really making a difference. To many patients, I’m either the devil woman who doesn’t allow them solid food or water, the bitch who won’t stop bothering them, or just someone who is paid to listen. This is not where the grad school version of me pictured she would be in her thirties. I’m not actually helping most of the people I’m forced to see for 30-45 minutes at a time.

Even though I was just going to this fuck ass job to pay the bills, I show up early and suffer through each shift. I never pictured it would lead to anything other than keeping the lights on and affording a roof over my head. The day started out normal with a schedule full of Alzheimer's, Parkinsons, and strokes.

Of course room 205 was on my list right before lunch. God, this poor woman was my least favorite patient to see because there was nothing I could do to make her any better. The stroke took all of her dignity and independence. This poor woman was the poster child of the ill effects of years of cigarette smoking, poor life-style choices, and cocaine.The fifth stroke was the final straw. Her ability to swallow, talk, and move were stripped away. She exists as a shell of a person that couldn’t enjoy life’s simple pleasures such as enjoying a good meal or wiping her own ass. With no volitional movement left, she was dependent on aids for every simple part of her care. It was depressing and no way to live. If it were me, I would have “do not resuscitate and no artificial nutrition” stapled to every piece of clothing I owned and plastered on every surface of my apartment.

I entered her room just like any normal session, the scent of soiled diapers pummeled my nose while I trudged in and set down my bag. I picked up a toothette and mouthwash and began to clean the crusted saliva off her lips while taking out the thick sludge-like secretions off her tongue since the staff doesn’t do a good enough job at keeping her clean. As I methodically cleaned her mouth I looked around at her wacky decor as I let my mind drift. Her room was covered in crystals and witchy shit her family always crowded onto her dresser. I don’t know a crystal from a rock and clearly don’t take stock in that crap but at least it was interesting to stare at while struggling not to gag at my current task.

After I finished I began setting up for our session to see if she would continue to choke on ice chips, which she always did. The wet gurgle always accompanied the sadness in her eyes as I worked to suction her airway. I knew there wouldn’t be a difference but her family always asked if there were any improvements and caused living hell if I wasn’t trying it again.

This session we were interrupted by a visitor entering the room, enrobed in black flowy cardigans and bangles clinking on her wrist. This particular woman was not a regular as far as I knew. I was familiar with her immediate family since they were always on my case and complaining about lack of progress.

The stranger silently watched as I put the suction down and dabbed at 205’s face with a towel to soak up the spillage. I turned to the newcomer announcing myself and stating my reasons for being there. The stranger didn’t respond and just watched me calmly. I asked if she would like me to leave or if she wouldn’t mind me continuing. She just stared with a calm expression and eventually said, “No worries. Continue as you are.”

I shifted uncomfortably and began setting the woman upright and straightening her clothing. That moment of kindness on my part sealed my fate, because that moment I was focused on my patient, the dark visitor rushed over and blew some powder in my face.

Choking, I muttered “what the fuck” before blindly swiping for a towel to wipe my face. My breath quickened and I could feel a bout of vertigo before my vision was swallowed up in darkness.

The sounds of a tube feed alarm going off finally had my consciousness stirring. I struggled to open my eyes and adjust to my surroundings. Thoughts raced as I was confronted with the stained and mildewed ceiling tiles I was ever so familiar with. My pulse raced and my ears pounded as I tried to get out of the bed but none of my limbs were responding. I attempted to move my head around but was unable to move more than an inch or two each way. My chest ached with panic as I attempted to look at my surroundings.

Right in front of the bed I saw myself hugging the stranger like we were life long friends. It didn’t make sense. Why was I there, but also in this bed. Anxiety and confusion circled my mind till the hugging pair separated. My body looked at me with such an empathetic look before twirling around and hugging herself while the stranger smiled a knowing smile. “I can’t thank you enough. You have no idea how I was suffering. Now I have a life again.” my body double said in a sing-songy version of my own voice.

“As long as the rest is deposited in my account then I’m satisfied as well.” said the stranger before turning to leave. My body turned to me one last time with such a sad knowing glance.

“You must be terrified. I’m sorry. I just couldn’t take it anymore. You have to understand.” She then walked out as I attempted to scream but only produced a muffled moan. As I hyperventilated, I glanced down at my body and could see the wrinkled hands of the patient in 205. I don’t know what was in that powder, but somehow we had traded vessels.

It took me hours to calm down and attempt to reach out for assistance. I couldn’t hit a call button even if it was in reach. The only part of me I could even move was my eyes and slight turning of my head. No words could escape my lips as the minutes turned to hours as I attempted to do anything I could to get out of this bed.

Aids came and went attending to my physical needs but none paid any attention to the panic that must have been on my face. The feeling of sitting in my waste was unbearable and I couldn’t even tolerate swallowing my spit unless I wanted to cough my lungs out. Spit rolled continuously down my chin and onto my soaked shirt. The soaked clothing added to the chill I felt. I didn’t feel any spark of hope until one of them rolled the Tobii in front of my face and turned it on.

Thank god I applied for this device for 205 a month ago. This unassuming black box on a stand was my one chance at relaying my predicament to others or even just communicating at all. Tobii Dynavox is a company that creates many different types of communication devices, but this one was special. Not only was it a computer in a compact form, but it could be controlled with one's eyes. Once it was centered and turned on, I was able to use my eyes to start calling for the nurses and aids. I droned on for help in that robotic feminine voice for what felt like hours with no help in sight. Devastatingly the aids were so worn down by the constant yelling for help from the other patients, that my pleas landed on deaf ears. Once reality set in, my gaze shifted from the communication app to the internet feature.

God I knew this would sound insane, but my last resort was reaching out here. This was the only place I could think of that might take me seriously.I know this seems insane, but please send help to Rosebud Rehabilitation. I don’t know who or what can be done, but I can’t exist like this. Please either send some witch to reverse this or just put a bullet in between my eyes. I can’t stand this much longer. I know there is no fixing this body and all I have forward to is withering away. The effort to even type this via eye gaze is excruciating and has taken many painstaking hours of typing a letter at a time. They only turn on the device for 2 hours a shift, which limits my communication with the outside world. Please hurry. I’m begging you.