Nibble Nibble

Samuel is Doc’s most difficult patient. He’s a 60 year old African-American man who is obese and from Georgia. He’s been to our hospital many times to control his blood sugar. He’s been diabetic for 26 years now. Sammy’s chiming in right now. Let’s listen.
“I swear to God! Dem mice be bitin my butt all day! he yelled, staring at Barbara with his blood shot bug-eyes. Just 20 minutes ago, good ol’ Sammy accidentally smashed our charge nurse Betty in the face with his food tray after awaking in a frenzy claiming that a baby rat was firmly attached to his crack. Those were his words, not mine. Suffice it to say, Barbara nearly went into attack mode, quickly rolling up her sleeves mumbling something about “crazy old man”, and “really putting something up his crack”. I make my entrance and attempt to listen to Samuel’s story.

“So what seems to the problem sir, I say with a pressed deep voice, thinking that my 3 weeks experience as an intern makes me some sort of expert. “Lemme tell ya doc. Cummere. I gotta tell ya in yer ear.” I move in closer to appease him. After a few tedious seconds, I slowly turn my head to look at him, worried that something special was about to happen. Sammy was snoring and drooling on my freshly pressed white coat.

“Samuel”, I whisper not wanting to be his next culinary victim. My question was met with long snoozes. “Samuel!” I say with a bold voice, thinking that somehow he’ll come back to us. No response.
I turn my back to leave him be, and out comes a hand across my shoulder. “BAH”! He yelps as he pulls me down backwards into his lap screaming, “DEY BITIN MY ASS! BAH!”

Pulling away gently from his death grip, Sammy goes on to inform me about the mice that bring him misery. “Doc, this is how it all started. I be sittin in my chair at the place I be stayin at. It’s a place for people to stay when they aint got a home. We were watching Caliente on the Spanish channel when outta nowhere I felt these little teeth marks bitin into my butt. I said, “Goddam, dey be bitin me! Dis hurts yall! Everybody started laughing at me sayin’ I be seeing things that aint there. I tell ya, I can’t see em cause my eyes been doin funny stuff lately, but I can feel em, and when I catch em, Imma gonna squash em.” As he says that, he pounds his hands into each other and I take another step back. He went on to say that he paid 2 boys $20 each to catch the mice for him. Unfortunately, those boys had no intentions of catching any “mice” and ran with the money. “Everybody be getting on my nerves because dey don’t believe me. Do you believe me?” I took a cautious step forward.

Yes. I believe you. I’m sorry people are getting on your nerves Sammy, but I think your nerves have everything to do with what you are feeling. Thinking I just said something witty, I awkwardly smile and can’t wait to the other interns how cool I am. Getting back to business, I tell Sammy that his long standing diabetes may be the culprit and that in fact the “mice” he is feeling are actually his nerve endings spazzing out. Sammy gets up, with a look of rage in his eyes, and says, “You gonna get dem nice dat be on my nerves?!

“Yes, Sammy. We’re gonna go get those mice.”

Queen of France

Summer, 1789-France

Day 37

The first ray of sunlight creeps into my chamber, splitting my face with light and cautiously awakens me. It has been more than a month now in this possessed place and I am still baffled as to why I am here. It is in times of war and economical plague, a time that has lasted for nearly 10 years now, that one must realize the necessity of sound leadership and judgment. As royalty, I assume that role. It appears that in doing so, I am considered a criminal for an unknown crime, surrounded by fanatics and lunatics whom would all love to kill me.

Day 42

I can’t bear this anymore. France has known no better queen than I, yet my misery and misfortune continues. I am fed like a peasant, treated like a murderer, and hated by all. In the yard today, I struck a reviled woman in the face that dared approach me with disrespect. I took my hand and swept it across her mouth so hard that blood spilled from her mouth. The rebels took me away and injected poison until my thigh that made revoked my spirit. I don’t remember what happened afterward, other than that I am alone in this room wondering when Louis will rescue me. Oh, my beloved Louis. It was not long ago when ships of jewels from far lands showered my skin and children sang my name as I strolled the gardens of my home. Today, I wear ragged clothes made from cotton, have no gold to my name, and sit in the corner of this room. All I have are my thoughts.

Day 47

Today is my opportunity. The rebels will meet with me in some sort of counsel. Surely, they will pay with their lives for abducting me in my own home and torturing me. The door has opened and the guard will lead me to the counsel. Now is my time.

Good morning Mary. Do you know why you are here with us today?

My name is Marie Antionette and you will refer to me as such.

Ok, Marie, please answer the question. Do you know why you are here?

No, I do not. And I will not answer questions to you, a man who has been my servant for 27 years! How dare you talk to me as if our roles were turned upon themselves!

Maam, your name is Mary Jacobs and you are here because the court system of the State of Arkansas wants us to determine if you are competent to stand trial.

Arkansas?

Ms. Jacobs, various times at our Psychiatric facility you have attacked our patients, refused all of your medications, and have required sedation in order to keep you calm.

What!? Who gave you the authority to speak? I am queen of France. I am the dictator. They tell me so, and if for one moment I could grasp your throat, I would squeeze the life out of you! You speak only when I say you speak! Do you hear me, boy? You have no right to accuse me of such atrocities. I will have your head by guillotine if you utter one more word, you imbecile!

Ms Jacobs, you are mistaken. The year is 1989, not 1789. You are not the queen of France. You are here because you are accused in the murder of your husband, Louis Jacobs.