poured out before bed
He points to the trash can at my feet with a trembling hand, breathing heavily as he struggles simply to manage his own secretions. I hold an emesis basin beneath his straining chin, just as he loses control of a great gob of frothy saliva.
“I can’ e’en’ swall my own skit,” he sputters, his moist eyes boring agony into mine.
I reach out and hold his hand, knowing how foolish it would be to ask him about his mood, his appetite, his energy, his sleep, his spirits. I place my clipboard and pen on the floor and let him feel out the old words his stroke has made new, let him cough and cry and catch at the striking difference between his former life and the one he lives now. Brokenly, he talks for nearly an hour, his eyes rolling from me to the sunlit window sill as he struggles to afford me but a glimpse of the strong man trapped in feeble flesh.
His frustration becomes to much.
“I with I’d fall owa winow.” He lays back and stares at the half dead cedar beyond the blinds. “Two sory ‘nougha en’ me…”
– Step 2 CK Throw Back, From Psychiatry