Five-minute checks. Fifteen-minute checks. Half-hour checks. Some nurses said, “Checks,” when they opened the door. Click turn the knob, swish, open the door, “Checks,” swish, pull the door shut, click, turn the knob. Five-minute checks. Not enough time to drink a cup of coffee, read three pages of a book, take a shower.
When digital watches were invented years later they reminded me of five-minute checks. They murdered time in the same way—slowly—chopping off pieces of it and lobbing them into the dustbin with a little click to let you know time was gone. Click, swish, “Checks,” swish, click: another five minutes of life down the drain. And spent in this place.
I got onto half-hour checks eventually, but Georgina remained on fifteen-minute checks, so as long as we were in the same room, it made no difference. Click, swish, “Checks,” swish, click.
It was one reason we preferred sitting in front of the nursing station. The person on checks could pop her head out and take her survey without bothering us.
Sometimes they had the audacity to ask where someone was.
Click, swish, “Checks”—the rhythm broke for a moment. “Have you seen Polly?”
“I’m not doing your job for you,” Georgina growled.
Swish, click.
Before you knew it, she’d be back. Click, swish, “Checks,” swish, click.
It never stopped, even at night; it was our lullaby. It was our metronome, our pulse. It was our lives measured out in doses slightly larger than those famous coffee spoons. Soup spoons, maybe? Dented tin spoons brimming with what should have been sweet but was sour, gone off, gone by without our savoring it: our lives.