Mantis, praying please
tales from the EeeeeeeeeeR, regular floor and step down
It’s hard not to attribute spiritual meaning to the spotting of a praying mantis, clinging to my dining room window screen this morning when I was sipping coffee after a rough day night morning, Sophie back in the hospital with a possible infection possible pneumonia and the usual insane amount of ineptitude in the er the er the er where we spent an impossible number of hours amidst the groaning and the yelling and the sick and the I don’t even want need to write this down anymore (the whining) because after spending all this time in the hospital the many weeks and more hours and even more minutes and then seconds, interminable, really, I am, really, afraid sometimes that they will kill her (what I think what I know a lot of the time and you are difficult, you are crazy, you come on too hot quickly follows (my voice I admit but I see it in their smooth faces, bless their hearts) after which it’s I am the Captain now.
Absolutely nothing good has happened when I’ve been nice.
The praying mantis can represent courage and persistence, some say, and also religious beliefs and prayer. Evidently the ancient Greeks and Egyptians saw the insect as a guide for direction, either in life or death. I need direction.
Patience, perseverance, too. The praying mantis’ predatory habits serve as a model for calm behavior and focus (They say).
Sometimes the female devours her mate under circumstances outside the male's control. If the pair is disturbed and the temperamental female becomes frightened, her immediate reaction is to whip around, snatch the male's head in her greedy mandibles, and gnaw it off.
Why greedy, though? I am the female, of course. I am Mom. I am The Mother. I am the Mama Bear, three names that irk. Calm behavior. Guide me. I am afraid here, in the hospital, afraid of the way the nurses, the doctors tap away at their consoles, the COWS (computers on wheels) the lowing, the care assistant so sweet so caring so young who had never used an in-line suction system, pushed it down, pushed it down, Sophie is red in the face and coughing, choking and I say it is NOT CONNECTED to suction! two times I say it and then say STOP I DO NOT WANT YOU DOING THIS. Focus. I will not gnaw her head off I’ll wait for the doctor the handsome one with the black curly hair (I was disarmed last night in the EeeeeR) the hospitalist who put us here and he can’t be blamed, circumstances are beyond his control, I’ll whip around, snatch his head in my greedy mandibles and gnaw it off.
I hate to read that you all are going thru this again, not just as a long time reader of your missives, but as a respiratory therapist who routinely cares for patients and families like yours. I like to think I’m one of the good ones.. someone who helps the nurses turn our patients to prevent the much-feared sacral wound, and who slicks damp hair back with a wet wash cloth, and who props arms up with pillows when they’re too close to the side rails, and who notices when suction tubing’s not attached to the canister 🥴 Sometimes the lack of empathy/situational awareness/attention to detail you describe makes me sick to my stomach. I hope you hang in there, and stay strong however you can. If that takes devouring those who dare question you, so be it.
“Absolutely nothing good has happened when I’ve been nice.” Yes. This.