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Wash Me

As a kid, I loved riding in the car, especially long trips; roadtrips with my grandparents were the best. On these trips, one was sure to encounter big rigs, coated in road grime, with Wash Me written with an jokester's fingertip. I am the big rig.

I'm miserable, again, and not because ALS.  It's because I'm in a managed care facility. You could say that the scrutiny is on other things, not on whether or not I get bathed. In a nutshell, I'm dirty. My skin itches and hurts. My scalp itches, burns, and hurts.

I'm supposed to get bathed three times per week, and I used to. But with the last major staff turnover, the habit, abruptly, ceased. I don't understand. I wear adult diapers and take daily bowel medications; thus I have an added need for cleaning. And I sweat. But, somehow, for some reason, I am no longer a priority. I'm an option.

They do not understand the personal cost to me when I do not get a bath or shower. I'm certain that if the searing pain, and the burning that I suffer, each week, were obvious, they would surely trundle my bare butt into that shower room, whether or not I was awake or not.

How do I make it obvious? Without a voice, I mean. 
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Location: 2720 E Madison St, Seattle, WA 98112, USA

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