On The Clock

Her name was Margaret O’Neil, and I could just tell that before her kidneys failed her, she was a firecracker of a woman.

Tiny and frail now, my partners and I would have to place two pillows on our stretcher,lift her out of her chair, move her over gently, and be careful of her foot when we set her down. She’d cuss you out if you hit her foot on something along the way, but then she’d take a moment to breathe and be flashing you that big grin of hers in no time.

I’m not sure why she liked me. It might have been because of that time when Ken was driving so fast and recklessly that we were being thrown all around the back. After repeated pleas of “Ken, can you slow down?” and “Ken you’re driving too fast,” I looked at Miss O’Neil and said “please excuse my language in the next few seconds.”

She just giggled and nodded her head.

“Ken, what the fuck are you thinking driving like that!? We have an eighty-four year old woman in the back of our ambulance for whom we are responsible. We pick her up from home, take her to dialysis, and bring her back. If you don’t slow the hell down I’m reporting your ass, okay?”

She looked up at me with tears in her eyes from laughing so hard. She thanked me as I adjusted her pillows, and we never had a problem with Ken driving again.

Maybe she liked me because of how I interacted with her family. It was quite clear that her son-in-law didn’t like her at all and was just waiting for her to die. He’d help us move her every day, and thank us, but at some point she’d make a little noise or a whimper and he’d lose it.

“Margaret, what the hell’s yo’ problem!? E’ry little thing’s gotta hurtcha and annoyya and I don’t get what the hell is wrong witcha.”
“I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for her to rely on other people for her movement. ESRD is a pretty painful disease to have, and I, for one, am absolutely okay with whatever she has to say about it. You complain away, okay Ms. O’Neil.”

She’d just look at me and smile, thanking me wordlessly. I worried about what happened to her when she was in there by herself, stuck with these young people who forgot the cardinal rule of respecting one’s elders.

She was my favorite patient. I’d see her at least once a week, because sometimes we’d be stationed somewhere else for the day. But days that I took her were my most favorite. We’d sit in the back and talk for the entire ten minute trip to the dialysis center.

One day we had to take her to an eye doctor, wait with her, and bring her back. While she was being seen, I sat in the waiting room reading a yellowed copy of a Nickelodeon Magazine.

“Is there a Mrs. Montgomery in the waiting room,” I heard someone ask from the door jamb. I raised my hand tentatively at first as I looked around to see if there were any married Montgomeries hanging around.

“Mrs. O’Neil has asked that you come back to the exam room for a moment, Mrs. Montgomery.”
“Um, you can just call me Sam,” I stuttered, obviously perplexed, “Can you tell me what she needs?”
“She doesn’t need anything, Mrs.–”
“Sam. It’s just Sam.”
“She doesn’t need anything, Sam,” the nurse said with a pained sigh, “she just gets nervous when the doctor comes in and would like to hold your hand.”
“Oh, of course! I’d do anything for Mrs. O’Neil.”

I walked in the room and took a seat on the exam table next to our stretcher where she still lay. She reached out her hand blindly for mine, as the doctor was examining her eyes, and I held her hand. I could feel the tension leave her body once our skin was touching.

“Are you married Sam?” She was one of my only patients who called me by name, and didn’t call me Samantha. I loved her for it.
“Oh no, heavens no,” I laughed, “I’m not even seeing anyone.”
“Good,” she replied with a little nod that threw the doctor off his game.
“Well, I don’t know, I’d love to be dating someone right now.”
“Oh, child. Don’t rush it. Please promise me you won’t rush it.”
“No worries, Ms. O’Neil. I promise.”
“Sam,” she said and her eyes grew big. The doctor was writing prescriptions now, so she adjusted herself to see me.
“Yes ma’am?”
“Sam, don’t marry a bad one. Do you know what I mean by that? You’re too pretty to marry a bad one. Don’t let him hit you or drink every night or not support you, y’hear? I married a bad one once. Didn’t know I had a choice. You have a choice, Sam, okay? You always have a choice.”

I don’t know why I started crying, but as tiny tears traced their way down my cheeks, she let go of my hand and wiped them away.

“Promise me that, Sam, okay?”
“I promise, Ms. O’Neil.”

That was the last time I had seen her. I held her hand all the way back to her house as she told me about her abusive ex-husband who drank every night and beat her just for fun. She told me about how the man her daughter married never laid a hand on her but still scarred her emotionally with the things he would say. She told me how beautiful I was, how long and elegant my fingers were. She put my hand up to her cheek and in turn touched my own.

We got out, moved her from the stretcher to the wheelchair (ever mindful of her sore foot), adjusted the pillows behind her, and helped get her up the stairs. I made another smart comment to her son-in-law for the way he treated Margaret, but I didn’t really care. I knew this was my second to last day here, and she wasn’t scheduled for any runs tomorrow. Might as well say what I felt.

“So I’ll see you on Tuesday,” she said.
“Actually, Ms. O’Neil, I had to quit because I’m going back to school this semester.”
“Oh thank heavens, child,” she said with a grin, “you know school is heaps more important than this job.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good! This job will always be here. Better jobs will always be there. Go to school, do well, and get a really good job, okay?”
“I promise.”
“And don’t marry a bad one.”

I was glad that the last time I had seen her was a good time. I felt fortunate that I wouldn’t watch her deteriorate over time into a foot-less, frail, shell of a woman. I never wanted to see her get so weak that she couldn’t talk–just whimper. I didn’t want to see that fire in her eyes go out. I was lucky to be leaving.

The last time I saw her she was full of life, smacking her son-in-law’s hand when he touched her pillows, and lecturing Ken about his driving. She gave me a hug and kissed my cheek sweetly.

“Remember what I said,” were her last words to me. And when I heard that she had died, I wondered what her last words were to anyone on this Earth.

Miss you, Margaret. I’ll do you proud.

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