During my dialysis nurse days, I became very fond of Mrs. Johnson, an elderly lady who was a frequent admit to the hospital. She remained matter-of-fact, even when very sick. I expect Mrs. Johnson had had occasion to learn complaints availed her nothing.

Her father had married her off to Mr. Johnson, a man in his thirties, when she was only thirteen. Over the years she gave birth to twenty-one children. “It wasn’t so bad,” she explained. “I was only pregnant nineteen times. I had two sets of twins.”

“Mr. Johnson beat me all the time.” She said.”I was so glad when he had a stroke an’ I could beat him. I beat him ever’day after that.” .

I surmised Mrs. Johnson suffered in relationships with her children as she was careful to bring her purse with her to dialysis. “I don’t nobody gitten’ my money. I got a bunch of wuthless kids.” She also used that enormous black purse to hide away her snuff. For those of you who don’t know, snuff is smokeless tobacco to be tucked in the cheek, then spat into a cup, not swallowed. It’s a nasty habit I made a point to ignore, inferring Mrs. Johnson’s life had held too little pleasure.

Though I made a point not to acknowledge the bulge in Mrs. Johnson’s cheek nor her spitting, I made sure I knew I always had a pocket full of gloves and knew where that spit cup was at all times.