A Kiss Is Worth a Thousand Germs, But Two Kisses...

So...I am on my way to the nursing home yesterday when my cell rings. "You have a crisis at Nursing Home #1. A suicidal/homocidal patient." Then they add their normal spiel..."He will be a regular referral and is in room blah,blah,blah. Have a nice day!"

This means I can see him more than once a month, which if you're doing therapy is totally the only way to go...if you want to see someone get better that is. I mean, what can you do for a suicidal guy you see only once a month? I'm thinking magic wand for those type cases because talking about the problem in 20-30 mins. just doesn't cut it!

But when I reach my first stop, the social worker greets me with, "You don't want to stay here too long. We're infested with the Norovirus." Great. I'm one of those people you say, "One time, when I was three, I got carsick," and I'm already heading for the commode. It must be a narrow form of hypocondriasis limited only to stomach viruses!

"But," she says, cocking her head to one side and frowning, "I don't think it's hit that hallway yet, so if you move fast and don't breathe on your way, you might be okay...and he is suicidal...or else he's just attention seeking because both his kids are out of town..."

So, off I go.

I do not consider it a good sign when I walk through the swinging double doors onto the hall and half the staff are wearing surgical masks.

My little fella comes tottering out of his rest room, gasping for air, his hospital gown open in the back to reveal a flat butt in saggy tidy yellows (no way were these ever tidy whities.) His gray hair is standing up in tufts, his skin is as gray as his hair and the aide quickly hooks him back up to his oxygen. She is wearing latex gloves.

He sees me, smiles or grimaces, I prefer to see it as a smile, and beckons me in. The aide walks past on her way out and says, "Oh, he's got diarrea now."

Uh-oh. But it's too late. He's looking up at me expectantly and it's time to get underway.

Turns out he doesn't think he's suicidal or homocidal. It's more like he's having "bad thoughts" he can't control. Furthermore, he's fairly certain God is punishing him for something because why else would his kids be gone? And why else would something real bad be wrong with him, something so bad people have to wear masks and gloves around him and won't tell him what's wrong?!

So I tell him his kids just went on vacation and he has a virus and that the staff is wearing gloves and masks to keep from getting or spreading the virus.

"Eh?" he says. "What was that?"

This is when I learn how hard of hearing he is.

So, I wind up broadcasting the virus news to the bottom half of the hallway.

And when I finish he says, "I just wish they'd tell me what's wrong with me. Why did God take my kids?"

This is when I realize he has no short term memory.

So I say, "How about them Yankees?" Because there is Yankee stuff everywhere. He can remember the Yankees, so I try tying the virus information and the kid whereabouts to the Yankees. After 20 minutes he remembers the kid stuff but still wants to know what's wrong with him and who the Yankees got in their trade for some pitching staff.

But when I leave he stretches out his hand, clasps mine and brings it to his lips, kissing me goodbye.

Uh-oh.

Halfway down the hallway, on my way out, I run into Lazarus. He doesn't look so wild today. In fact, he is dressed and sitting in his wheelchair and looks for all the world like a 7 year old boy waiting for school pictures.

The smile he gives me is like spring returning after a long winter's cold snap. Then he takes my hand and he kisses it!

That's when I notice the kidney-shaped throw-up pan on his lap. But it's too late to stop the kiss. Lazarus has a grip like iron and eyes that beg for love. I stoke his hair, smile and say a few words before making a beeline for the antibacterial hand sanitizer.

I practically shower in the stuff. I clean everything I have with me. Then I turn to the social worker who's waiting expectantly for my report.

"Well," I say. "There's good news and there's bad news. First of all, Norbert isn't suicidal or homicidal- just anxious and lonely."

"So what's the bad news?" she asks.

"The Mudwing Hall has Norovirus."

She sighs. "I was afraid of that," she says.

You were?! Really?! What was I, your science experiment?!

Stay tuned for a further report on the incubation period for Norovirus...