Tipsy

One

Chapter One

Hallie

There was a subtle chime ringing through halls filled with nursing staff, physical therapists, physicians, nutritionists, aids, and residents. Sunny Corner Long Term Care was home to nearly two-hundred Chicago residents. Although the sound occurred almost daily, it never got easier to hear. Everyone continued through their work, but there was also a brief pause out of respect. Some frowned, some wept, some performed the sign of the cross, and some just fell silent. This chiming only occurred for a loss of life.

For me, it was a mixture of feelings. For some residents I cared for, the sound came as a blessing. It was hard to see people I cared for in pain. For those particular Sunny Corner patients, there was a breath of relief, knowing they were no longer hurting. Some passed away in their sleep, and I found that comforting. The ones that died unexpectedly, though... the news was never easy to hear and often left me in tears during the drive home. Where some people kept going about their workday, my heart couldn't bear the thought of that chime being a sudden event for one of my patients.

For two years, I was assigned to Hallway C. It was an overflow area with a mixture of patient-types. Currently, this hallway housed three terminally ill cancer patients, six elderly patients, and two patients in need of physical rehabilitation. There was unease in my stomach as I checked each room for an empty bed. Thankfully, as I worked my way from one end of the hall to the other, I was greeted by smiling faces. Each was enjoying their meatloaf dinner. The residents loved meatloaf Mondays.

"I ain't dead yet," a growly male voice boomed before I'd finished sanitizing my hands.

"I had no doubt," I said jokingly. "You'll outlive me out of spite, Harold."

His eyes rolled, but we both knew it was true.

Harold Cooey was the definition of a pain in the ass patient. He'd joke about his demise daily, but the only reason he was a resident was because of falling off a ladder, shattering his pelvis in three places and fracturing some vertebra. Once his physical therapy was complete, and he was walking again, both of our days would be better. Even though he had moments that made my work as a nursing assistant miserable, there was something about him I liked. We both took no shit from anyone. He was admirable in that way.

"You didn't eat your meatloaf." I observed, pulling his rollaway table from his bedside.

"Tastes like horseshit."

"Everyone loves the meatloaf."

"I don't. I hate it."

"You hate everything."

Harold smiled at that. He always did. The meatloaf only seemed to join the hated list on this particular Monday. The man had been here for almost two months and had eaten it just fine until now. It would be an hour before the light would be on above his doorway, signaling for me to return with more food. For that reason, I left the tray within his reach.

"Do you need anything before I make another round?"

His eyebrow lifted, making my head shake with a no. "You didn't eat your meatloaf. The doctor said you could have one beer after dinner. Nurse Laurie won't let that fly."

"I can't watch my Cubs without my beer!"

"And you can't have the beer without your meatloaf." My arms crossed. This was like arguing with a child.

"It tastes like ass!"

"Knock, knock." A familiar voice chuckled from the doorway. "Did I hear someone doesn't like the meatloaf?"