A Stroke Survivor and an Uber Psychopath

My friend has a huge SUV, a BMW with a running board that, as a stroke survivor, on my very best day ever, I can't enter, to travel to and fro. So whenever she comes and I have an appointment, we take an Uber. Every Uber driver I met was pleasant, except one on that horrid day when I encountered a Uber psychopath. 

We were traveling to Adventist Hospital for a bi-weekly blood draw and everything was fine in the "to." But the "fro" was a different matter altogether.

When he stopped to pick us up at the hospital which was a 15 minute ride back to my apartment, my friend and I couldn't tell there was something wrong with him. He stopped, put the wheelchair in his trunk, and we were off. 

My friend asked him if he could possibly stop at  the pharmacy to pick up my prescription, and he agreed. At the pharmacy, once she got out of the car and entered the pharmacy, the questions started and I knew why he agreed to stop.

"Do you want to drive off and leave her here to make out later?" he chillingly said. "I know a place."

In the seconds that followed, I simply laughed, intentionally defusing those words as if he meant it as a joke. But his expression was dead-pan. 

He went on when I didn't answer him.

"We could drive far away from here or, if you'd rather, I could come in your apartment building to make sure you get safely to your apartment."

I laughed again to further defuse, but by now, his tone took on a more aggressive posture. I was on the brink of despair. I didn't look at him again, and I thought of opening the car door, but I didn't have my cane to walk away. It was in the trunk. I thought of getting out anyway and falling down (that was a given), but I might crack a rib or break my nose again or one of hundreds of other possibilities. How could I defend myself as a disabled person? I sat there with a smile on my face, but I felt chilled in the heat wave that was encompassing Portland, OR.

Fortunately, the pharmacy was not crowded and my friend came back out. He repeated the last question to her.

"I could come with you all to make sure you get safely to your apartment. Would you like me to park the car and do that?"

My friend, completely unaware of his thoughts leading up to that question, thanked him but said the building is a secure one so no need for him to bother. 

When we returned, he got the wheelchair and the cane out of his trunk. When he drove off, I told her what happened, and then she became horrified. We talked about calling the police, but then we decided to give him a "1" (you have to rate the Uber drivers) and not giving him a tip, all done by email shortly after the ride happens. We were going to call the police, but as time went on, I forgot the name of the driver and the encounter became less horrifying.

I've come to regret that decision, possibly allowing it to happen to other passengers, especially the disabled. I give myself virtual smacks on the head often. I also wonder if Uber vets the driver for mental health issues. I am an average-looking, 70 year old woman. If it could happen to me, being past the stage of "hotness," what about the others, younger and more attractive than me? 

I'm still wondering, with regret abounding forevermore.

I Was Naked In The Shower With A Man...And More

That title would be something that you'd see in a tabloid. But it happened to me. Before you get all hot and bothered, let me explain. It's not you're thinking.

It is hot here in Portland, OR, with heat advisories for the last two weeks, and my mind is always in thought. I think about my third book, not about strokes, but about relationships. I think about the coast this coming Monday where I can enjoy the mild sun, scrumptious food, and needless though necessary shopping. And I think about my time in the Bacharach award-winning acute rehabilitation facility where I had adventures as well, mostly all wretched. I want to forget about the acute rehab, but at least once a week, there it is, in my thoughts.

It's not that I want to think about it 9-1/2 years later, but it contributed to my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Take the man in the shower, for starters.

The days seemed endless because they were waking me up at odd hours to take a blood draw, or changing my IV bag for hydration, or a Certified Nursing Assistant (CNA) complaining about the shift, and on the eighth day, the nurse came in and announced that I was going to take a shower. I couldn't talk for almost a month and a half, so I couldn't protest. Looking back much later, I hadn't showered for 32 days since I had the stroke on April 8, 2009. I guess I got sponge baths in the meantime. I don't know, and at the time, I didn't care.

The nurse maneuvered me out of bed and into the wheelchair where I would transfer to the shower chair, taking the IV bag in tow. (It was accompanying me everywhere I went and the shower was no different, the nurse positioning it in front of the shower's curtain). A male CNA was helping her with the transfer, and when I was positioned, she turned the water on. I heard her laugh with the CNA about how she didn't warm up the shower before I got in.

Let's pause here. Do you the iconic movie Psycho where Janet Leigh issues a blood-curdling scream? That incident, memorable to most, was rigged by the director, Alfred Hitchcock, who turned off the hot water as she shot the scene, unknown to Leigh. That scream I uttered was like the scream in Psycho, but worse because the cold water lasted longer.

Anyway, back to the story. I couldn't wash myself, wild-eyed and PTSD'd from having gone in the shower in the first place, not to mention the whole stroke experience thing (which not only devastated me but my sons as well.  Check out this post: https://stroketales.blogspot.com/2018/02/my-sons-my-sons.html)

But soon, fully clothed, the CNA got in the shower with me and spread soap everywhere, even my "down there" region, as my mother used to say.

He rinsed me off as best as he could accomplish, and the nurse turned the water off. But I still had soap in my "down there" place and between my toes. And I couldn't talk. It was a living nightmare because I knew that soap would make me itch. And it did, two hours later.

The nurse dried me off and the CNA, dripping wet and assisting the nurse who got me back in the wheelchair, went to torment another patient, I thought.

I'll never forget her words as she breezed out of the room.

"Don't you feel better," said as a statement instead of a question.

"I feel like shit," I screamed silently, but the one thing I didn't have anymore was modesty. I fell asleep, wondering if I could change my profession to a stripper from a college professor because modesty had become a non-issue. That thought alone was deranged, but I didn't realize it at the time.

Breaking (albeit 9-1/2 years old) news: Bacharach didn't deserve that award. Protocol couldn't have been to send the opposite sex in the shower with the patient. And, oh yeah, I had become a delusional mess.