The thing most disturbing to me is sense on part of nurse to personally identify with my pain. Hence, "And how do we feel this morning?"

I object to this vehemently. It is my pain, not "our" pain. I believe each nurse should go and get their own pain. I'm paying a lot for this pain and I deserve all credit. I do not choose to share my pain with anyone, especially someone with a bubbly orientation so early in morning.

It's my ailment and I have right to not only enjoy it but also tell everyone about it. One reason it's so hard to tell people about my ailment is everybody wants to tell me about their own ailments instead.

My hospital room that I'm paying for should be one place I can indulge my ailment. I should not have to compete with nurses concerning my prevailing ailment. From a casual perusal of medical journals while waiting in doctor's office, there are more than enough ailments to go around.

This is my ailment and I share it with no person, especially healthy nurses wielding needles and pain pills.

If I hear that phrase, "And how do we feel this morning?" one more time I'm going to throw some business to my favorite funeral home.

A related phrase brought just as much frustration. My good nurse came in one morning and quipped, "And are we having our breakfast this morning?"

Looking at breakfast tray before me, with barely enough for me, I simply glared at her. If she had any designs of slicing in on my breakfast, blood would flow. I gripped my plastic knife menacingly.

This whole thing came to a head my last morning in hospital. My evanescent nurse burst into my room and asked, "And are we ready for our bath this morning?" This was straw that sipped last drop of patience from my languishing body.

Nothing is more personal to me then "my" bath. I will share my tub with nobody except my rubber ducky.

Getting rest in hospital is a challenge for weariest soul. Just when you think you have snuggled down for a snooze, someone asks how you are.

The best rest comes from Jesus Christ who invites everyone to "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." (Matthew 11:28-30 KJV.)

His inquiry is always welcome and comes at right time, like now.

We seem to liken our best flower to a loved one. Consider this: if you have a lover, to what would you compare her? A Morning rose or a sun flower? Certainly not a bramble. Or a thorn tree.

But there lived women in times past, who were bramble and thorn trees. And they still live today. God deliver thee from their hands. And may good Lord not give me thorns and brambles.

Give me not Samson’s bride who will give my riddles to my detractors. Or a nagging Delilah that would lay bare secret of my success and bring me to an untimely grave. But do give me a woman with tenacity of Juliet and sensibility of Abigail.

Give me not Agememnon’s wife, unfaithful Klytaimestra, who murdered warrior for love of Aigisthos. But give me Penelope, daughter of Ikarios, and tenacious wife of much endearing man, Odysseus.

Give me not a wicked Jezebel exterminator of imaginary foes, or a Marozia, Donna Senatrix of Rome, killer of popes and “holy men.” But give me a godly lady like beautiful Queen Esther of Susa—shapely like a sculptor’s handiwork, skin like cinnamon, eyes like dove’s and feet like gazelle’s. And Minerva grant me power to compose sweet poems for fair maiden.

Give me not Helen or a Lucretia, causes of many fights and sorrows. Rather give me a Queen Elizabeth I, Virgin Queen, a woman hard to woo by men. Or a La Gioconda—the stately Mona Lisa with bewitching smile.

I do not desire a Queen of Sheba, wealthy visitor of wise Solomon, who lacking honor ended up on bed of libidinous king. But give me shepherd boy’s wife, Shulammite, “a garden barred,” “a spring sealed up,” and “a wall,” with “breasts like towers,” shunning “circlets of gold” and “studs of silver.” May her breasts like a cluster of pomegranates, continue to tickle me till my dying day. Let her very bosom delight my soul from summer to spring and from autumn to winter.

May I be in ecstasy when she plants her sweet lips on mine as I look into her dreamy eyes. Let her angelic fingers caress my bones as we lay by fireside in winter confirming our love to each other. May her rich mellifluous voice liven my spirit and make my day.

Let her—my Penelope, my Juliet, my Abigail—be beside me in my sleeping and waking hours. May she—my Esther, my Elizabeth, my Mona Lisa, my Shulammite—be with me in fair and in bad weather.

Let her be majestic flower in fence of my country home.

Let her be flower of all seasons—purveyor of joy, harbinger of happiness. Let her be my forever red and yellow petals— yellow for sun rise, red for sunset— unfailing as sun.

Let her, even she—my love, my life—be pride of paradisaic islands in far away waters.

Let her be my Pride of Barbados!

(GIVE THIS ESSAY AND A BUNCH OF MY PRIDE OF BARBADOS TO THE DEAREST WOMAN IN YOUR LIFE)

Arthur Zulu is an editor, book reviewer, and author of Chasing Shadows!, How to Write a Best-seller, A Letter to Noah, and many others. For his works and free help for writers, goto:

http://controversialwriter.tripod.com

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