The Foley Burglar

In a funny way of greeting, one of my patients, an elderly gentlement that has a predilection towards the cantankerous, said to me accusingly: "We're YOU the one that stole my foley bag yesterday?!"

I had to surpress a laugh--not to mention look of utter disbelief--and simultaneously conjured an image of myself as The Infamous Mid Atlantic Foley Bag Burglar, notorious for spiriting home patients' used foley bags and storing them in my closet. I then imagined myself hurrying home to my piles of used foley bags, having a nightly ritual of cradling each in my arms, whispering deliriously to myself over and over again "We loves them, precious! Oh yes! We needs them! Nasty hobitses... we won't lets them near the precious, no we wont! Evil hobitses, trying to take my precious away, but we won't let them, will we, precious?! We must kill the hobitses, vile, loathsome, evil hobistses! My precious, my love..." And later, me, screaming into the darkness: "The lambs, Clarice! The lambs! Can you hear them now?!"

Of course, the imagery wasn't as amusing at 6p.m. as it was at 7a.m. for by change-of-shift I'd already had about fifteen pointless conversations about his stupid ass, discontinued foley bag which we could not replace and yet he kept insisting we should.

Logic. They should teach it in school. Or give geriatrics seminars on the topic, to prevent brain rot.