Let the Good Times Roll

Disclaimer: Vulgar language abounds in this post. Only adults with strong stomachs need apply.

The nasty nursing home crone was stationed in the hall today, lurking in wait. As I took Flip for a walk to keep his blood moving, she yelled, "You have a lovely husband." Surprised, I said, "Thank you. He is lovely." I thought that maybe yesterday was an off-day, that she is really a nice old woman.

"You're a witch," she added.

"I'm glad we cleared that up," I said and tried to pull Flip away by his hand, but he was stalled in place.

"Too bad you're an ugly fucking bitch," she screeched. "You're a fucking piece of shit slut and everybody hates you. I hate you." (I could use coy asterisks, but what's the point?) Usually, people have to know me before they hate me. She was jumping the gun.

I pulled harder on Flip's hand and he decided he didn't want to be moved. Who could blame him? All the action in the place was right there. Everyone else was dozing in wheelchairs.

"Fucking slut asshole!" she yelled. "Eat shit and fuck you." She reprised all her insults, including some I've forgotten, cackling like the green broomstick witch in The Wizard of Oz. She could have been her understudy - she really had the laugh down. She kept on shrieking with hateful laughter as I dragged Flip down the hall, not nearly fast enough.

Latifa, one of the nurses' aids, sidled up to me, "Just give her the finger," she said. "She told me I was FAT. I told her 'You're much fatter than I am.'" She flounced off muttering "FAT."

"Fat and ugly. Fucking ugly!" screamed the old woman behind me. "Your husband hates you, too!"

I learned that her name is Roberta. It figures. Roberta is my middle name, which I've never liked. I dislike feminizations of male names in general, but I dislike it mostly because it sounds ugly unless you're Spanish, which I'm not. When my older daughter was a child, I once threatened her with writing a story about her and calling her character "Roberta" if she didn't stop whatever she was doing. It was effective. It's an icky name.

Latifa told the director of nursing that Roberta needed to be out of the way somewhere, preferably in the locked psych ward, and she was removed from her post in the hallway. Dementia has not been kind to her. Of course, dementia is not kind, ever, to anyone, but it's possible she was a lovely lady before. It's hard to imagine because she is so utterly hateful now. There is probably a cautionary tale here, but since we have no control over what happens to our minds as we age, I know of no way to ensure that we will not turn into Robertas. And that is a very chilling thought.

I snapped a picture of her today but my new iMac is running a different version of iPhoto than I've been using, and I can't figure out how to get it onto my desktop. But know that even in my moment of despair, my last thoughts were of my awesome blog friends.