I Write from Inability to Surrender Thought or Memory to Dust

New York, N.Y.   1960: I write from an inability to surrender a thought or memory to dust.  Memoir, poem, story, novel and essay, it is all to reconstitute my world for ingestion by others.

The Boro Park of the 40s early 50s.

Goldwater Memorial Hospital, Roosevelt Island, C-12, 50s, 60s:

Something of the human spirit, the fear, laughter, truth.  I was 14 or 15, paralyzed, mouth positive pressure, skinny, acne, long dark braid, sharp blue eyes; gmh, C-12.  Word that several of the new group of Student Nurses were nuns. Jewish from an Orthodox family, I was just sure the Head Nurse would never assign a nun to me.

Nevertheless: “Bath time,” chortled the young (early twenties, pale benign eyes) nun (they were then still in habits) student nurse.  She pulls the khaki curtain around my bed, removes my wash basin from my bedside stand, quickly returns from the nearby sink with the basin brim full of hot water.  I was petrified.

“Do you have family?” during the bed bath she was giving me.

“Yes.”  “They come to see you?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have sisters and broth…” “Yes.”

“Do you go to school?” “Yes."

“Do you like …” “Yes.”

“You're Jewish, aren't you?”

God, what now?  I nod.

“Have you ever had a nun student nurse take care of you?”

“No.”

“Have you ever met a nun before?”

“No.”

“Well no wonder you look scared to death. Poor thing.  I guess you are.”  I nod.

“Please calm down. I'm like any student nurse. I won't try to convert you or hurt you in any way.  I can give you more time than the staff nurses.  We can have fun.”

“Okay,” I reply, relieved but doubtful.

“If you're still uncomfortable after I've completed your care I'll ask Miss - to change my assignment. I don't want you to be upset the whole time I'm with you.”

“No.  I'm a little calmer.  It'll be okay.”  We talked and joked through the bath and had a fine time.

“Is there something else I can help you with?”

“Can you push me to the library?”

“You'll have to direct me.”

“B basement.”

As we approached the Patients' Library deep in the dark dank bowels of the huge old medical institution which was my home, the wonderful Miss Hinton was just closing up.  Years later by phone in our respective apartments, Bruce Lowe recalled for me how he had appreciated her good service. Miss Hinton was a bit of a tippler, which information too Bruce later supplied.

Bruce was a fellow polio patient 'On the rock,' as he called it.  After much teenage hubris we grew close.  The day Kennedy was assassinated he said, “You read in novels that people turn green.

Sharon, your skin is actually green.” Probably because I had renounced tears; my liver spewed forth. I was bilious with grief and shock.)

“Wait,” I bellowed. I don't know if I had started using the respirator on my chair.  Later years brought battery-powered respirators on wheelchairs and motors on wheels, driving tube in my mouth, next to respirator mouthpiece.

Either way, I don't know how I wailed so loud, where I got the wind.  Adrenaline maybe.  She, my student nurse nun friend said, “Very dainty.”  We had a wonderful time.  A lot of fun.

Miss Hinton died many years ago, Bruce died 12 years ago at 42.  I don't know what became of the nun.

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