Ball Thumper

Ball Thumper was just fired. Mrs. Remo caught him thumping my balls. But now, my sheets and diapers are fresh and clean. I’m sure in the next bed, my friend’s diaper’s and sheets are also clean. For a so-called “vegetable”, my story will not be believed, but it goes like this:
My friend and I exist in beds for “wet brains”. In diapers and hospital gowns we reside in this V.A. death-watch ward next to the morgue. When a nearby door is open, we hear the metallic clank of instruments and the “whump” of what can only be cooler doors sealing in bodies.
While we cannot talk, my friend and I have learned to communicate. It began quite by accident. One evening, late in Ball Thumper’s shift, shortly before the start of graveyard, I dirtied my diapers and fresh sheets. In the position with a single leg bent up to the chest, the diaper leaked. I’d tried to avoid this, but this evening I couldn’t help it. Ball Thumper discovered the mess as he was emptying Foley bags and taking out trash.
He said, “You son of a bitch. You’re trying to ruin my shift again.”
He tore off my diaper and thumped my balls. I jerked and groaned with each thump. Replacing the diaper without washing me, he left the sheets dirty.
When he was done, the man in the next bed must’ve dirtied his diapers.
Ball Thumper swore again and slammed something against the bed frame. From the sound of it, he thumped the man’s balls because the man groaned and his bed frame rattled as he jerked.
After Ball Thumper left I groaned once. My neighbor groaned once. I jerked once. He jerked once. After a few minutes, he groaned. I groaned. He passed gas and I reciprocated.
Over the weeks, we refined this primitive communication and collaborated to rid ourselves of Ball Thumper.
On Ball Thumper’s weekly five shifts, we harassed him. We held our bowels until near the end of his shift. If it seemed someone else was nearby while he tended us, we would thrash, jerk and moan. Eventually, Ball Thumper caught on. So, it became a battle of wills.
For weeks we warred. After any bowel movement, he thumped our balls. Our first victory came one evening after we’d been left dirty for the graveyard shift to clean. It began politely enough.
A voice said, “Artemus, Last night, Mr. Oldham’s and Mr. Butler’s diapers and bed were left dirty for the graveyard shift to clean.”
Mr. Butler. I’d learned my friend’s name.
Artemus or Ball Thumper said, “Those two are messing with me.”
Mr. Butler and I jerked, groaned and thrashed.
Two nights later the voice said, “Artemus, I’m reporting you to Mrs. Remo for improper attention to these patients.”
Swearing, Ball Thumper said, “I told you those two guys are conscious and deliberately shit their beds at the end of my shift.”
Mr. Butler thrashed and I groaned.
“Artemus, something about you agitates these patients. No other patient reacts this way,” the voice said.
After that, Ball Thumper cleaned and changed us as needed. But he threw us around. The pain of my bedsore shot through me as I was dragged across the bare mattress. He then wadded the sheepskin into a knot against the sore.
At the end of each shift, Mr. Butler and I signaled “goodnight” and remained silent until Ball Thumper returned. In those long, boring periods, I slipped into my own reverie and private hell.
I’d sensed my life ending because it was becoming difficult to climb the hills in Seattle. I was sleeping on the wharf and relying on friends to bring me alcohol. I didn’t care about food.
So one night, desperate, I wrote my will and instructions on a brown paper sack. I inserted contact information in my wallet and visited my friend in the Wells Fargo building. Knowing I was close to death, but before I went through detox-hell, I said, “I’m dying. You’ve got complete authority over all my affairs.”
I signed a power of attorney and gave him my debit card. I said, “All I’ve got are my writings. Please place them in a trust for my ex-wife and kids. After your costs and charges, should there ever be income, please split it equally.”
He said, “You can’t afford me, but I’ll do it anyway.”
I gave him the password to my e-mail where my writings reside.
He said, “Keep writing, I‘ll get them together for you. I got you a motel room.”
With twenty-five dollars, I left to buy alcohol. When it was gone, without medication, I started to detox yet again. Because I’d suffered seizures, without medicine, it was medically unsafe to detox but I didn’t care.
I began to sweat. Alcohol and toxins flushed from pores smell like stale, sour cheese. The room reeked of that smell and the rot of my body. My clothes were saturated and filthy and my underwear was streaked. I threw it in the trash. Stripped of my clothes, I lay in the sheets until they were soaked. Chilling, I put the soiled, putrid clothes back on and alternated between chills and sweats. Even water would not stay down. I heaved on an empty stomach. My sides were raw and my throat burned with the gastric juices. My stomach cramped.
Dante said again and again, “I come to ferry thee hence across the bar to fierce fires, endless nights and shramming cold.”
Worse, I could not sleep. Bombing my psyche were agonizing thoughts. Quaking my fragile sanity, the thoughts crashed in and tumbled over each other without ceasing or warning. I relived the pain my marriage. I cried for my little children for when they must have curled up wondering if their Daddy was dead. I cursed my neglect of them. I banged my head with my fists. Lying in the womb of sweaty sheets I endured.
There was no relief. I wanted death. I feared death. I cried for my soul and was disgusted at my pathetic late, late cry. I screamed. I condemned myself to hell and trembled that I might go. Finding no forgiveness I begged for it. Sleep terrorized me because I might drown in my vomit but craved oblivion to escape the cauldron of my mind.
Dante tormented me without reprieve.
Late on the third night, I must have had a seizure. I regained consciousness in this ward next to the morgue. Finally, although I cannot see or speak, the horror is gone and I am at peace in my diapers.
My sister visited me and said, “Dale, Mom died. Dad just stares. I don’t hear from your kids. You look so peaceful there. I miss our long talks, because you were the only person I could talk to.” Patting the bone protruding just beneath the skin of my hip, she then left.
Now, weeks later, Ball Thumper is gone. After he left, Mrs. Remo said to Mr. Butler and me, “I really get the sense that you two guys know what you’re doing. Just so you know, I think you two veterans represent the best of the human spirit. You are good soldiers. Thank you for your service.”
It is the graveyard shift. In our way, Mr. Butler and I just said “goodnight”. He jerked and thrashed and passed gas longer than usual, so it might have been “goodbye”. His breathing is shallow, so I feel he is letting go.
We’ve done a good thing for this ward. I’ll miss Mr. Butler, but believe I’ll hang around for a few days and pick up any staff gossip about Ball Thumper.