I forgot to clip the Foley bag. I’ve been a registered nurse for ten years, and I forgot to clip the Foley bag. You were tossing and turning, and I was afraid, in your confused state, you would leave the bed and crash to the floor into a heap I could never recover. And so, I checked the Foley bag, afraid, again, that you could have removed it from your body. Since your family left, you’ve changed. Forgetful. Confused. Even giddy, at times. And so, I wanted to check your Foley. And that’s when I saw it. The urine, stinking and saturating the carpet (THIS FUCKING CARPET! WE WERE SUPPOSED TO REDO THE FLOORS THIS SPRING!). A slow dawn was creeping through the windows, and in the fading darkness, on my hands and knees, I dropped my head as if to, again, admit defeat and surrender to the cosmos. And so I gathered the vinegar, the cold water, towels and more towels. On my hands and knees, I’m cleaning, and you awaken. You stare at me. You see me, on my hands and knees, and stare, saying nothing and asking nothing. And you would die two nights later.
And so, I’m leaving this place today. I’m leaving so much behind, but I’m going. I have to. And while I could never stay in this place after what the disease did to you, there’s a little twinge. A sadness that breathes because I’m leaving behind tiny pieces of you. Genetic material. DNA. In the bathroom sink. The kitchen floor. The piss in the carpet. You’re everywhere in there, but you’re nowhere. But I have to leave. I must. And I still can’t believe I forgot to clip the Foley bag.