Bitter Truth

When I was in high school and  read George Orwell's "1984"  I felt suffocated by the thought of living in such a society, but I figured that by the time that year came, I would be 46 years old, and beyond caring about anything like that. Time seemed so endless then, and the future so far away.  When I was 27  my father died unexpectedly of a sudden heart attack.  He was retired by then, but pretty much the sole caretaker of his mother's sister, his Aunt Ella Keegan.  When Ella learned of his death, she mourned his passing, saying Charlie was such a good boy, and had always been so kind to her.  I remembered thinking how odd it was to hear my father, dead at 71 years of age,  referred to as a boy.
   Ella had over the years been plagued by an abdominal hernia, a condition which had caused her to be hospitalized for treatment whenever the hernia would protrude through her age-weakened abdominal wall.  So after my father's death, my mother and I would visit her during her hospitalizations.  She was in her 90's and would always be a patient in what seemed to be the elderly women's ward.  That ward was filled to overflowing with old ladies who were confined to bed.  When I, young and unencumbered, would walk down the hall, and pass by the open doorways, the pleas would start:   "Please, Miss, will you get a nurse for me?  No one answers when I press the call button.  Oh, girl, can you help me?  Can you get me a drink of water?  Can you come here?"  I sort of wanted to help them, but I didn't think I should, so I never did, other than saying hello, and maybe sometimes telling a nurse that a patient was calling.  It was obvious that the nurses were aware that the patients were calling for them, but for whatever reason, they largely ignored the calls.  It was the time before Alzheimer's diagnoses; their plight then was labeled senility.  Nothing to be done for those lonely old women on the verge of losing everything: life, mind, sanity.
    When I was in my teens, I couldn't even imagine my life at 46.  In my twenties, I could not relate to what my life would be as an old woman in a hospital room, a discarded life.
   But we do grow older and life does get colder, and the bitterness of it entered into my life a week or so ago, when I became a hospital patient for the first time in my life, other than when I gave birth to my children, which is a  different type of patient entirely. 
      So for probably the first time ever, I gave in, amidst utter misery, post-surgery as it happened, and pressed the call button, the purpose of which  is diligently pointed out and explained when admitted to a room.  Nothing happened, so 15 minutes later, I pressed again.  In another 15 or so minutes, an attendant of some sort responded and said she'd tell a nurse.  Again, no response.  I tried once more and a young "para-nurse" finally came, but only to say he'd tell a nurse.  She never showed up either.  Since my surgery had taken place in the evening and I didn't get back to my room until 10 PM or so, I realized it was the night shift.  Night shifts are traditionally understaffed, but beyond that, I believe there is a tacit understanding that patients are not to be catered to at night---they're supposed to be asleep.  I had a semi-realistic vision of myself, young and capable, walking down the hallway and looking in to see one of those old patients, alone, calling for help that never comes.