II. Trauma

There’s not much time left. Out of work yet again, I feel busier than ever before. Having to wrap my mind around so many tasks that have time restraints. Easily thrown off center when I miss one. Like my $230 electric bill that put my bank account in the red. How does a single person in a studio rack up a $230 electric bill? And that was apparently me using less electricity than normal, even though I’m now home every day. It just doesn’t add up. Like in February of 2024, having just left NYU and finally having time to assess my accounts, I discover AMC and Disney Plus were still being charged to my internet bill even though I had cancelled them more than a year before. Being so depressed and foggy mentally, I never noticed. Like I didn’t notice the over $2,000 I owed ConEd because it was no longer being automatically deducted from my bank account each month. So many details that make up the modern life. How does the average person manage?

There’s not much time left. Out of work again, I feel busier than ever before. Having to wrap my mind around so many tasks with time restraints, I’m easily thrown off center if I miss one. Like my $230 electric bill that put my bank account in the red. How does a single person in a studio rack up a $230 electric bill? And that was apparently me using less electricity than normal, even though I’m now home every day. It just doesn’t add up.

Like in February of 2024, having just left NYU and finally having time to assess my accounts, I discovered AMC and Disney Plus were still being charged to my internet bill even though I had canceled them more than a year earlier. Being so depressed and mentally foggy, I never noticed. Like I didn’t notice the over $2,000 I owed ConEd because it was no longer being automatically deducted from my bank account each month. So many details that make up a modern life. How does the average person manage?

Since there is little time and little to no money left, I want to finish telling as much of this tale as I can. I promised you a story on how the Network cost NYU $2 million in one night. I, unfortunately, will have to take that claim back. When running the story through my mind at different angles before sharing, it occurred to me that something else happened that night.

I was working the back district on my unit like always. Usually the most difficult district. One of the patients in it came in due to multiple falls. When I started my shift, she was busy walking up and down the hall, which made me nervous. I asked if she could stay in her room for safety, but she declined and assured me that she wasn’t going to fall. I had to admit, her walk was steady and her body appeared strong. One of the doctors was sitting at the back nursing station and watched our interaction.

“What exactly happens before you fall?” I asked her, trying to get a sense of what to look out for.

“Nothing,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to fall.”

The doctor smiled as I allowed her to continue to pace up and down the hall.

Later that evening, after a new group of nursing aides arrived for their shift, I approached mine to inform her of who to keep and eye oRight away, I could see she was going to ignore me, partially because of the gossip and partially because she was already mentally on vacation.

It may have been around midnight when I decided to do another round on my patients. I assumed everyone would be in bed, but apparently not my frequent falls lady. Her bed was empty and the light was on in the bathroom. When I knocked, Maria stepped out with both hands filled with cash. Large bills, too. Her eyes didn’t acknowledge me when she came out. I looked down and saw her gown soaked with urine. I realized that this must be what happens before she falls.

As I was taking in what was happening to Maria, my secondary nurse approached and said she needed help right away. Her patient was withdrawing from alcohol and was beginning to get out of hand. She needed help medicating him. Thankfully, my aide was approaching at that moment. I asked the aide to look after Maria, reminding her that the patient was there for frequent falls. To ensure she didn’t have to leave Maria’s side, I pulled the linen cart over to the room with warm wipes before teaming up with my secondary to help her withdrawing patient.

Blood pumping in the wee hours of the morning, my colleague and I approached the withdrawing patient’s room when we heard a thud. “That was your patient,” she said. My heart sank. “I just had a fall. It couldn’t have been my patient.” I responded, afraid to turn around.

Just days before, I arrived to work and was told in handoff that a high risk for falls patient was caught trying to make his way back from the bathroom unaided. No one helped him to the bathroom in the first place. In seeing this, the nurse decided to take away his bed alarm. “His gait isn’t so bad,” she said to my surprise. The previous night, almost the entire unit of nurses had to work to keep the man safe, and she took away the main tool that I would need to do that. Sure enough, he fell during my shift.

My colleague told me to assess her patient while she checked on mine. Less than a minute passed before she said I needed to go quickly. There was blood.

When I walked into the four person room, I only saw the aide at the patient’s beside. No patient. My eyes then swept to the opposite side of the room, where I saw Maria unconscious with a pool of blood next to her head. “How did she end up all the way over there?” I yelled. I assessed Maria and could tell she was breathing with a pulse, but unresponsive. I knew not to move her and quickly went to call for help. When calling reception, I told them that I needed an RRT. “Although I might really need a Trauma,” I said, rethinking. “There’s blood.”

“Do you want a Trauma I or Trauma II,” asked the receptionist.

“I don’t know. I’ve never called a Trauma before. What do you think?”

“It’s up to you,” she said, with no help.

“I guess we can start with a Trauma I and I’ll call back if it needs to become a Trauma II,” I said, feeling it wise to take things one step at a time.

I would like to note to the supervisor who was on duty that night that the RRT team did show up first. The second they walked into the room and saw the patient they said, this needs to be a Trauma. The second it was said, lo and behold, the Trauma Team entered on cue. I had never met the Trauma Team before. They were like a small traveling Shakespeare company that prided themselves on being themselves. The team leader announced himself with his chest out and head up and explained how things would run. One of the rules being, when anyone went to retrieve an item requested, they must state their name and what the were going to retrieve.

Once the rules were clearly stated, care of the patient resumed. Right away, items began to be requested. “I need a 1L saline bolus,” the team leader commanded. “I got it,” said the ANCC about to dart out the room. “Who has What?” said the team leader.  The ANCC stopped and corrected himself. He stated his name and what he was going to retrieve. Next, the leader said, “I need a C-collar.” We almost never had neck collars on our unit, but I had just seen one two units over the previous night. I knew it was probably still there. “Lawrence will get the C-collar,” I said with theatrical flair, index finger darting into the air with youthful eagerness before marching off to the other unit.” On my way to get the C-collar, I had to laugh to myself. Life could be so entertaining even during the most critical moments.

Not wanting to share the entire event, I am happy to say that Maria did make it that night. The fall meant me being at her bedside for the rest of the shift and basically neglecting my other patients. She was to be upgraded, but until she was, she needed constant assessment and care. Some colleagues helped me out by medicating my other patients in the morning. Just before change of shift it was announced that a bed had been made available in MICU. Up until that point Maria had showed no signs of consciousness. While working with her, I tried to engage her through my voice. I spoke to her and sang as if she was alert. “And you said not to worry,” I told her. “Now look at you!” I said in a playful voice. “But you’re going to be okay, so don’t worry.” I was worried.

Although I wasn’t much of a WEST SIDE STORY fan and never memorized the songs, I did sort of know the melody around “Maria” a bit. I kept singing her name like in the Musical to bring her some comfort. I was singing it when we were prepping her for transport to MICU. Just before we left the room is when I saw a sign of hope. One of Maria’s hands lifted slightly into the air and then plopped down again. I think I was the only one who  saw it, but I saw it. She was in there.

At some point that night, the supervisor came up to talk to me. Why hadn’t I called an RRT first, she asked. I told her that I did but then said it might be a Trauma, which it was. I was then told that I had cost the hospital $2 million dollars because of my choices. Silently, tears began to move down my face. She got up and left me alone with my choices.

In the morning, when my manager arrived, she quickly read over my report of what occurred. Having scolded before for moving a patient who had fallen without thinking of possible injury to the neck, she was relieved I had not made the same mistake twice. She did note, however, that Trauma II is the lesser Trauma. Not Trauma I. “That is all,” she said.

Now comes the part of the story I had overlooked this entire time. A couple of days later my manager called me at home. Maria’s family was enraged and ready to sue because her purse was missing. She wanted to know if I saw one. “She had it with her in the bathroom,” I told her. “Her hands were full of …” I stopped. Having been so exhausted by the end of the shift, I accepted the day nurse’s offer to clean up the room and handle the belongings. That means I was now clueless as to what happened to her money and other things. “I should have stayed and done it myself.” I told her. “I’m sorry.”

I never thought the day nurse would have taken the purse. I always assumed it was one of the aides helping the nurse. I knew some had it in them to take it. I am quite sure some even struck patients from time to time. I could tell by how upset patients became when certain aides entered the room versus others. But it never occurred to me that it could have been my aide that night who took the money.

Whenever I thought back on that night, I always saw it through the eyes of someone being bullied by their colleagues. I would picture my aide standing at the patient’s bedside with a devilish grin on her face as she watches the confused patient wander away from her. She waits and is satisfied the moment Maria falls, knowing that at the end of the day Maria is my responsibility. Another strike against Lawrence.

But when I stepped out of the role of one being bullied, a different image suddenly appeared. An image of an aide about to go on vacation being introduced to a confused patient with two fists full of large bills. An aide who is then left alone with the patient and her money as the nurse rushes off to handle another emergency. Wondering where she can safely stash the money, the aide is relieved that the confused patient turns her back and walks away. This give the aide a bit of time to figure out where to hide the money and not worry about the patient recalling seeing her take it. And in focusing on money and self, the aide allowed the patient to fall. No devilish smile or witchy cackle. Simple greed and selfishness. That is what cost the hospital $2 million that night. That is why a head nurse for the MTA tried her best to get me away from my home each day, even planning an outing after the Nurse’s Day lunch, that would keep away longer than originally planned. Because each day I showed up to work and left my home vulnerable to attack, she got paid.

It was only after removing my phone and iPad as trusted devices from Ring that my alarm was finally triggered by someone other than me. The day it went off for the first time, I almost asked to go home to make sure everything was okay. And it angered me that the head nurse at work didn’t seemed alarmed at all.  She acted like nothing was wrong and that I should focus on the work at hand. When showing her that my super had texted me after I sent a photo from my iPad to iPhone, when no one should have, she only said, “That’s wild!” She already knew what was up. She only started to overlook my lateness and my complaints regarding my home when she learned she could financially benefit from the drama. Suddenly I was her right hand man. She needed me more than the nurses who did show up every day and on time. Who didn’t have an asshole as a super or MTA neighbors ready to throw him under the bus. Who cares if her silent cooperation would mean the end of my life. She had perfume to buy, family cruises to book, and a small bus to rent to shuttle family and friends for her daughter’s graduation. That’s the type of greed that causes traumas. That’s the type of greed that destroys a hard won life and can kill.

When Leo refused to get to know me, he said that he couldn’t build a life with me. That I should do it on my own. I did. I took all of my heartache and sadness and began to create a home for myself. I didn’t realize that as I was doing so, filth was coming in and pissing over all of it.  Secretly watching through the floor boards and crown moulding as I danced, dressed, and fucked. Twisting my life into a tale of sexual deviance and debauchery to the point that colleagues didn’t even care if they were getting intel illegally. Like when I told the ANCC that I would need to take a car service home and back during my break because I left a candle burning. Right before my break he stated that he didn’t think it was a good idea. He didn’t want me to make him late for his break. Our breaks were 1.5 hours. I lived 20 min away with no traffic and there was no traffic at 2am. It’s because he got in touch with someone in my building who would ensure the candle didn’t burn anything down and was told to keep me away since they were in there.

I told colleagues about the hacking, apologized for missing work due to leaving out the door and my door knob coming off in my hand, and a number of other events, but no one dared to say that they knew what was happening to me. Instead, they took the information gained and bullied me.

Through this entire ordeal, all I ever needed was someone to say, enough. To inform authorities of the fowl players who were stepping outside of acceptable conduct. And believe me, these sad excuse for neighbors won’t stop when I’m gone. They will use their victory and the lessons learned as fuel to look for their next target. They are also causing harm to the community because of their acts, by drawing attention to the Network. Authorities knew you existed already, and have allowed you to do so. As long as you knew your place. But to hack, terrorize, steal, and mind fuck, that’s an overstep. Especially when hacking me could mean gaining access to someone more important. Like a federal agent, or an employee of King Charles, or someone who reports to the White House every day. I know them all. And even if I am a nobody to authorities, they are somebody.

If you do not speak up, 131 will continue to attack anyone who appears too well off, too happy, too attractive, and basically too not them. Wanting to teach their victims how it feels to struggle and to have their life fall apart with no way out. And to that, all I have to say is, that’s been most of my life. Yet, one would never know to look at me. I see how some women roll their eyes and men stiffen. First of all, thank you. It took me a while to realize that at the end of the day, that’s actually a compliment. It shouldn’t necessarily be seen as a negative judgment, but as jealousy rising up because you actually like what I’ve done. It just comes out as negativity because you doubt that I might be kind enough to engage. Like a guy I once met who had just gotten out of prison. We were walking late at night talking about life and he suddenly stopped and was in shock that we were getting along. That we could have a conversation and laugh. And I was like, why not? But to him it was almost unthinkable.

Just because my life has been hard doesn’t mean I have to be hard. I’ve learned that it’s far better to cultivate what is beautiful in life than to dwell on and collect the ugly. It’s in holding onto the ugly and ignoring the beauty that creates the fake mask that most of us wear, never taking the time to explore what naturally makes us beautiful.

During these past few years, I learned that most people aren’t who they present themselves to be. Those ready to march for equal rights for all fall silent when their next door neighbor is being violated. Most are not authentic and deal with it by projecting their faults onto others. Quick to judge, punish, abandon, and attack. Saying, “I’m not that bad because look at him!”

Morpheus was right when teaching Neo to be careful about the lady in the red dress. If they are in the Matrix, they are dangerous. They could easily morph into a killer. Just look at what happened to Jesus, and he was Jesus!

Another thing I learned is: I like me. I have fight in me. I like that even in my 40s, I still can’t hold my tongue (fingers) when antagonized by assholes who need to know they’re assholes. It’s a form of community service. Always willing to help others know themselves. I’m not perfect, but no one is. I will always be a work in progress. But at the end of the day, I like who I’ve become. I even like my devious side because that part of me is still extremely loving and caring. Something most never took the time to notice. It’s in liking and loving myself that I have allowed myself to be seen, even if judged. It’s by being judged and having people refuse to see me that I have learned to not care so much about what you think. That you’re going to have their opinions no matter what. And that those opinions have more to do you and your experiences than me.

When Leo didn’t stay to try to even be friends as he originally promised, I felt so lost. Even sleep couldn’t be a refuge from the pain. My sobs would wake me and remind me that he was not there. I felt his absence as a sign of how wrong I was. All wrong. And by never being the right thing, I had never found the love I wanted in life. Although I still have days in which I feel like this, I’ve come to believe that it doesn’t matter. People are so busy acting out the roles society expects of them and seeking partners society says they should want, that I have stepped into a strange position of being seen yet unseen. People don’t know what to do with me.  Am I real or fake, especially in a world that is so fake. They expect me to react in one way and are surprised when I respond another. “Let’s take him apart and see how he works,” someone suggests, and the crowd cheers! The thing is, once you do, you can’t put me back.

One past partner recently told me, “I now know you’re the person you said you are.” It had never occurred to me that he would ever doubt. Now, at 45, I realize that most people don’t tell the truth because they don’t know who they really are. That’s why everyone accepted the gossip about me so quickly and were willing to attack. They failed to explore the nuances of who I am as they have failed to explore their own. Kinky, yes. Loving, yes. Spiritual, yes. Hard working, yes. Enjoys harming or taking advantage of others, no. Would rather spy on another, break their laptop, steal their shit, poison them, and gossip about their sex life instead of tending to my own life, no. Will sell out a colleague for a new perfume and purse, no. I am not perfect, but I am truly loving and and concerned about the welfare of others more than my own selfish desires. I would never force my desires onto others because I would never want to be the reason someone needed therapy or struggled to allow love in from another. I never want to be someone’s regret. That’s not the role I wish to play.

When reflecting on a moment in which I did betray a friend through my actions, after I did so, I promised never to do it again. I had been intrigued by what it would feel like, and it didn’t feel good. It didn’t make me more powerful or better than. It meant now having something to hide and be ashamed of. Now having something to keep us apart. And that is not something I want within any of my relationships. That is the very reason why I never cheated on my fiance even though he was off to the races whenever I left for work was at work. Because to cheat on him would be cheating me. I knew I would never be able to gain the same level of trust again. That I would be cheating myself of true happiness with him. After waiting so long for someone to even want to marry me, it wasn’t worth it. I just wish he had felt the same way.

But why should I bother telling you this? You probably don’t believe me anyway.