Sexual Assault, the Nun and Eddie Izzard

I've never been this close to a nun before - its all I can think about. She's not wearing that long black outfit, like in the Sound of Music. Just a little conservative number, with one of those veil like things on her head. I'm trying to see how she keeps it on when her eyes pop up from the stack of papers and meet mine. "I'm sure you know why your here." Wow. This is not going to go well.

Its been nearly a week since I walked into an exam room in the ER where I work and found a young male patient masturbating. It seems every move I've made since I opened that door has made a continued downward spiral in the eyes of my Catholic employer. Not that it should matter, but I am not a Catholic. As a former Lutheran, current Agnostic, well on my way to Atheism, I have little knowledge of the Catholic church. Up until today, for instance, I thought all nuns somehow had "Mary" in their name. I have no idea what to call this person. "Why don't you tell me what happened" says not Mary.

He told me he was having an asthma attack. I put him in a respiratory distress room. Lots of tubes, stainless steel, very medical. I went back to the nurses station, paged Respiratory, grabbed a Neb kit and walked back. When I opened the door, he was on the gurney with his pants around his ankles. Here comes my first mistake. I didn't panic, I just asked if he wanted me to come back later. "You didn't ask him to stop his behavior?" I . . (did I?) . . no. Strike one.

Not Mary raised her eyebrows. "Did you return?" No, the nurse manager took over. I told her what happened and she went back to the room with a security guard. The doctor (also female) saw him briefly, decided their was no asthma, and sent him away. He walked passed me at the nurses station on the way out.

"Tell me about the next morning." I was walking to my car, texting on my phone with a friend. "When did you see him in the parking garage?" He said something, Nurse, I think, and I turned around. I was next to my van. My arms were full, I had my cane . . "You didn't shout for help?" I . . (did I?) . . no. Strike two. "And he pushed you?" Yes. "What else?" I closed my eyes. How to describe this to a nun? Talk fast. He shoved me against my van. I swung at him with the cane. He headbutted the side of my face and my belongings scattered. He had his . . penis (can you say penis to a nun?) . . out and ejaculated onto my clothes. He turned and started walking away. Security came through the garage entrance. They took him to the ground.

She is sorry about the attack. Sorry that Security did not question him in the hour that they saw him wandering thru the employee parking area. Sorry that they did not take the attack as seriously as I thought they should have. They will be dealt with; that is all she has to say on that matter. The patient will be held in an appropriate facility until he can be safely released. I will be notified of the release date.

And now, for me. Do I understand the concern my superiors have with my failure to identify the seriousness of the patients initial behavior? My cavalier approach to his inappropriate actions? What if he had attacked an innocent party? The hospital could have been held liable.

At this point, Not Mary leans across the table. She tells me she is sure things have been hard for me since the death of my husband last year. Then she moves in for the kill. Strike three - I never saw it coming. Security found inappropriate photos on my cell phone, lost in the scuffle in the garage. Photos of a man in women's clothing posed provocatively. She has heard that I recently took a vacation, and that I went to see a show which featured the performance of a known sexual deviant. Some of my co-workers have said that I posed for and allowed photos of myself with said sexual deviant to be posted to the Internet. My supervisors wonder if my judgement in these matters has been clouded by my sexual proclivities, whether I might somehow give these patients the "wrong message." For now, I will not be allowed to evaluate psych patients that present to the ER. There is counseling available for employees, for both the attack and the deviant preferences I have developed since my husband's death.

If I were allowed a fourth strike, it would have been the smile which began to spread across my face when I realized what she was talking about. Believe me, it took a minute. My daughter and I recently went to New York City, where we took in our first Broadway play, RACE. We went twice, actually. U.K. actor and comedian Eddie Izzard had a staring role. He also happens to be a transvestite. My friend Philine was with us - she took photos at the stage door of me with Mr. Izzard. She posted them on her Facebook page. My phone background is a photo of Mr. Izzard from Stripped. Show? RACE. Internet? Facebook. Sexual Deviant? Eddie Izzard. Wow again.

I would like to say that I flew off in an indignant rage - I did not. I wish I could tell you I hired a lawyer and sued them for millions - also, no. I have no shame in my behavior with this patient. I am the kind one, the soft touch. All my co-workers will tell you the same. I thought he was harmless, and I was wrong. I am not ashamed of my fanship of Eddie Izzard. I found him to be a kind man and a charitable individual. Not Mary missed the part where his "friendship" stopped me from acting on the suicidal thoughts I had after my husband's death. His Twitter feed introduced me to a whole new group of friends who keep me sane and moving forward. My daughter and I lugged an Amish quilt thru the airports of the Midwest to New York City and gave it to him as a thank you gift. I don't find his preferences (or mine) any more sexually deviant than professing to be married to a deity.

Before you judge my lack of action, let me tell you a few more facts - there are 4 hospitals within 150 miles of my home. My current employer owns 3 of them. I am now the widowed mother of two, three with the grandson my teen son produced and is raising alone. If we struggled before, we are drowning now. I have been the butt of more jokes in the last week than I care to hear, but I haven't missed a day of work. I show up with my chin up, and I still treat every patient the same way. I know I want out of this job, and I will admit I drove home after a particularly gruesome night with Let the Cables Sleep by Bush on repeat on the DVD player, crying my head off in self-pity. But my kids are proud of me. They didn't "get to me." I won't change the way I practice medicine, and I have two new beautiful portraits of Mr. Izzard taken by Philine on my wall. And yes, hes wearing makeup. I envy his application of eyeliner. And I did get in one "give it to the man (or nun)." I refused to sign the incident report. I'm proud of it. And I indicated (quite rudely) that no counseling was required. I believe the phrase was "Fuck you."

All American AIDS

I am an AIDS Widow: It has taken me more than a year to say it. Few people know the real cause of my husband's untimely death. Not among our friends, not even in our family. We were married for 13 years, have two beautiful children and lost twins at birth. He did not cheat on me, didn't use IV drugs, had never had sex with a prostitute or with another man. Because of these things, he "did not fit the profile" according to his doctor, and this is why he went undiagnosed until it was far too late for any hope of extending his young life. We were told that he had probably contracted the disease 15 to 20 years before his diagnosis; before we ever met, before we had planned our future and the future of our children. His exposure was finally traced to his only probable risk factor, a blood transfusion following a motorcycle accident in his early twenties. His sunglasses crumpled into his forehead that day, and he lost enough blood that this precautionary measure was taken. I always thought the scar gave his face character. He was not tested for the same reason. I had been tested when pregnant and was negative - still am, a fact which strangley causes me pain and guilt. We assumed after all the years together that he must also be: surely he would have passed it on to me, right? Wrong. Someday, in another blog, I will speak of caring for him at home alone, how easy it becomes to find out who your real friends are, and what it means to be without insurance in America.

A few months after his death, I logged on to my first social network site, Twitter, to follow comedian Eddie Izzard as he ran marathons to raise money for the charity Sport Relief. He literally saved my life on more than one occasion, posting some casual comment about blisters or exaustion that seemed so personal that I was sure I still had at least one friend. I also found support and new friendship in some of his fans. When Mr. Izzard spoke about Nelson Mandela's 46664 charity, I was glad that AIDS fell within his high-profile charitable thoughts. I gladly donated some of my husband's life insurance money and I proudly wear the band registered to his memory. But the circumstances of his lack of diagnosis nagged at me.

No offense intended to Mr. Izzard or anyone else who raises funds for AIDS research and treatment; their efforts are both commendable and appreciated. But AIDS doesn't just happen to people in third world countries. The African children featured in Mr. Mandela's website aren't the only children who will be robbed of a parent by this disease. A newletter from the 46664 Bangle Project (info@thebangle.com) states that Washington, D.C. has an AIDS rate that rivals some parts of Africa, but the common misconception in so-called civilized countries is that AIDS has been relegated to poor countries with even poorer health care. Please be clear, this fact is fiction. Not only did my husband live in the US his whole life, I actually work for the hospital that failed to diagnose him during the last three years of his life. Months before he was diagnosed, his appearance would have made him a poster child for the disease, but the physicians who treated his myriad of symptoms overlooked this due to his lack of the appropriate "lifestyle." Also in question was our lack of insurance. Noone wanted to look too hard or test too much due to the question of our ability to pay. His eventual diagnosis came two months after our health insurance kicked in. Do I seem bitter? Yes. Betrayed? You bet. Africa isn't the only country that needs to dedicate more of its resources to AIDS education and prevention. I would like to think that my family's story might cause an epifany amoung his own care givers. I would hope that my lowly blog might raise awareness amoung its readers. But I'll take one - one person who gets tested and perhaps diagnosed when medications can make a difference. My husband's specialist told me that with proper treatment, an HIV+ patient can expect to live a normal life span, to die of heart disease or stroke like anyone else. Please tell your friends, your family, your co-workers our story. Tell the people you love who "don't fit the profile." You've nothing to lose but the pleasure of their company. Trust me, I know.

The Joys of Takeout

I don't think the Pizza Hut in town will miss us, but they will surely remember us. We stopped in last night for Drake's favorite, the Personal Pan Cheese Pizza. Next to us, a family received their food just after we ordered. The father of this little family asked his young daughter to say grace, and she dutifully folded her hands and bowed her head. Drake's ears perked up at this, and he also folded his hands and raised his cherubic face. The neighboring family smiled at this, not knowing we had just finished watching The Simpsons Movie. As their daughter finished her blessing, Drake chimed in, "Bountiful Penis. Amen." Four shocked faces turned my way as my daughter jumped up to ask for our order to go. "That's bad," the little girl hissed. "Downright Evil!" her mother added. "Evil?" smiled Drake, "Like the Pope, Evil?" Next stop, Pizza Ranch.

Days with Drake

Drake comes by train, half a day's travel and half a state away. I drive eagerly to the train stop, with wanton disregard for speed limits. Dispite a three week planning period, I am late. He runs to me as I pull in, dragging a suitcase full of Hotwheels cars and no clothes. On the drive home, we discuss my tardy arrival repeatedly. "Grandma, you were late. Weren't you late Grandma?" Thus we discover today's theme; some thought which can't seem to find the exit sign in his head. He will relate in detail the story of our trip to the demolition derby - not so much because of the cars, the dirt, the noise that would thrill most young boys. Drake remembers the man who snatched from him a t-shirt he caught when a driver threw them out at the end of the show. He wants to go again this summer, but reminds me that he hopes the "bad man" won't be there. Attention to detail, that's Drake. His Autism gives him a single minded focus that most grad students would envy, but fellow first graders find repelling. He can recite the contents of the automobile history book at great grandma's house with amazing accuracy. All things wheeled and motorized are studied and worked over with devotion. But I long for him to form an attachment to other children that comes close to his love of the current John Deere tractor catalog. I foist him on my neighbor girls, who are too polite to refuse the invitation to play. They stare blankly as he shows them the nuances between the previous Mustang Models and this year's addition to the collection. Finally they find a common ground in riding their scooters, and though Drake insists on cleaning and adjusting their wheels, at last he is playing, playing, with other children. The time runs too quickly as the sun goes down, and the girls go home. But for the first time, he comes in wanting more time with another person instead of time spent with his beloved cars. I tuck him into his Thomas the Train sheets and pull up his Monster Truck blanket. As I start the Disney's Cars DVD, I remind myself: Albert Einstein, Steve Jobs, both brilliant men who have been placed on the Autism spectrum. I remember the baby smiles, heart warming and right on schedule. His love and gentleness with animals. His amazing sense of humor. Drake may not be accepted by all of his peers, but the brilliant part is he seems not to notice. He takes great joy in the things and people he loves and doesn't care to focus on the rest. Perhaps it isn't Drakes Autism that needs pitied, but the lack of it in the rest of us.