The old man propped up on pillows is suddenly overcome by the all too familiar griping pains.
He needs a bedpan and he needs it quickly. He presses his buzzer for a nurse but he is not optimistic. He presses it again and again with increasing urgency. He hangs on: no nurse.
Tears roll down his cheeks as he feels the warm familiar softness oozing underneath him and the malodorous stench reaches his nostrils. The old man hangs his head in shame. He presses again and again. After ten minutes a nurse appears, with a what’s-all-the-fuss-about expression; she makes her assessment, sighs, draws the curtains around the old man and scurries away, promising to be back. Three quarters of an hour passes before two nurses appear. They chatter to each other as they do what has to be done. He says he is very sorry. They tell him not to worry. But he does. They tell him it is all right. But it certainly is not from where he is sitting.
