Why I Write: Honey Ham

There was the summary from the admissions office, but other than Sheila trying to choke the lunchtime aide at the nursing home and ripping out her own right big toenail in the ER, the treatment team didn't know much about her. Sheila arrived by ambulance wearing a hospital gown, and it was a few days before staff convinced her to take a shower and put on the gray sweatpants and crew-necked sweatshirt the hospital provides for people with no clothing. Sometimes, Sheila pulled up her sweatshirt exposing her breasts and her hernia. It took a month or two of medication before Sheila would wear socks and her white Velcro sneakers and keep her sweatshirt down. At first, the nurses were a little crazy that Sheila might drip blood from her right big toe onto the floor, but it healed up in a few days. The social worker cringed when Sheila walked around barefoot on the dirty linoleum tiles dotted with candy wrappers. Either way, everyone was looking for the housekeeper, but he wasn't in the TV room watching the Today Show with the patients. If you looked through the grates on the windows, you could see the cemetery across the street.

Sheila didn't talk much. She would stare with wide gray eyes at the person addressing her and mumble a reply, “Garbage smooth skipping” or “Dog red.” Mostly, Sheila listened intently to her voices. She was at her best at mealtimes. Despite having no teeth, she never missed a meal and ate quickly with real enjoyment. No teeth meant a pureed diet, medically defined as “a smooth, cohesive, pudding-like consistency,” tuna sandwiches on soft white bread and oatmeal. Sometimes the kitchen sent up a scoop of pale egg salad or overcooked rotini with red sauce. Staff watched Sheila carefully so she didn't choke, gave her yogurt cups