Picking up hearing aids (or s#*t happens)

It was a hard day.

Come right away, they said on the phone.

I was running late to meet you at the hearing aid dealer.

Even with your changing cognition, I believed in hearing tech to improve your life.

The office door said closed, but eased open when I pushed,

Smelling the shit right away.

In the back room you sat, legs and dress covered in excrement.

I peeked into the single-stall office bathroom and gagged.

The sight. The smell.

You know how I am with bodily functions…of any type.

Toddler poo. snotty noses, needles, blood.

I work in a knowledge industry.

Where there are guardrails from such intimate contact

Bodily fluids – so disturbing and visceral.

She can’t ride Care Cab unless she’s cleaned up, they said.

My vehicle was too small and your body too weak.

We needed the wheelchair driver.

I rushed home and returned with a clean flowery dress, soft socks, and supportive shoes.

Compression stockings be damned.

I buffed your legs, your arms, your wheelchair with damp rags.

The bathroom stink hovered as we prepared for your shuttle.

You, in the waiting room, closed in, cloaking your embarrassment.

Me, handling it.

Playing the role of dutiful daughter, while wiping away grief.

The man in a hazmat suit scouted the detritus, planning his approach.

As he passed you said, I’m really sorry about the mess.

His simple yet gratuitous reply salved our spirits.

I don’t see that you have anything to apologize for.

-          Janet Tilstra