A Week on a Ward

The black nurse, calm and competent, got an x-ray plate and positioned it on the platform used for taking pictures from above. She placed my right hand and arm on the x-ray plate. Why? I was supposed to be getting a chest x-ray. Why would she be x-raying my arm? Next to my arm, she carefully positioned what looked like a huge, light blue mitten. It was large and insulated, looking similar to what a person wears in order to take something out of the oven. It was a good 10 to 12 inches long. Docile, I complied with the nurse's wishes, keeping still as instructed, in order not to ruin the x-ray. She seemed very pleased. Stepping behind the radiation screen, she gave me a big smile and said, "We're going to make a model patient out of you." She flipped the switch, taking a picture of my right hand and arm. Ohmigod! My hand. It was the right hand and my right arm. It was the power arm. My strength. What was going on here? I had had missing insides or so it seemed that first morning on the ward. And then there were the inkblots, swirling and consuming my consciousness. They were going to make me into a model patient. I would be photographed, duplicated and replaced with magnetic controls. I would become a stupid robot, totally under the control of some unknown entity.