I smile, and shake my head. “No, I didn’t know that.”
You nod at me, “Well, it’s true. I’m gonna send you a bill now.”
I laugh, and the layered masks muffle the sound.
I was consulted because your kidney function is dropping.
Clear yellow urine now turning dark amber. 2/
Your room is on a COVID unit.
The plastic sheets you have to zipper yourself through. The cool hiss of the air flow. Donning and doffing.
There was a time when this was a pulse-quickening ritual, when adrenaline would flow.
Now it is a necessary nuisance.
Numbing. 3/
Every time I see you, the visit finishes with an exchange of trivia.
You tell me something I didn’t know.
I try and tell you something equally interesting.
It’s a sort of game. A challenge.
I realize that it’s something I’m looking forward to, every day.
A little joy. 4/
Late in the evening, when I get home, I sit down with some books and skim through for interesting tidbits I could use.
“Schott’s Original Miscellany” is a godsend, as is The Guinness Book.
I enjoy the peace.
No screens. No one monetizing my attention.
Just pages turning. 5/
“Did you know Bluetooth is named for a Viking king, and the symbol is his initials in runic form?”
“Did you know a group of ferrets is called a ‘business’?”
“Did you know in Japan they have cube-shaped watermelons?”
“Did you know M&M’s stands for ‘Mars’ & ‘Murrie’?” 6/
Every time I see you, I’m well-prepared with a piece of trivia, and you always have some obscure fact ready.
I never ask you where this pastime of yours started. I just go with it.
It makes you smile.
And it makes me smile too.
At least for as long as life lets us. 7/
The last time I see you is a Friday. You’re more tired than I remember you being.
I don’t remember the piece of trivia I share with you. Perhaps something about Scotland.
For the first time, you don’t have any trivia for me.
You just thank me for taking care of you. 8/
I never see you again.
When I come back to work after my weekend off, your name isn’t on the list.
This happens with numbing regularity in the age of COVID.
Still, I hope.
I hope you got better, that you were discharged home.
That you’re enjoying trivia with your family. 9/
But when I look you up, I see the dreaded pop-up window that sounds unreasonably cheerful in my head.
“This patient is deceased!”
And I just sit, and feel the color drain from my vision slowly.
Did you know, 428,000 people have died from COVID-19 in America?
Do you know? 10/
As death lingers in the hallways, and steps into the rooms, I think of you.
I remember you, and your trivia questions like flowers.
Like a hummingbird, I remember every single one.