To Hell with HIPPA

Digging fingernails into my wrist, salt water fills her eyes as she looks directly at me, "Please don't get sick."

Three little old ladies sit in chairs ... not wheelchairs like most in the room ... but chairs.

They can still walk.

We're packing up to leave ... storing guitars, drums and tambourines ... hauling out the sound system ... when I do my last walk around the room hugging every woman and man there ... listening to whatever they have to say ... mostly trying to not cry as moister fills their eyes and they say, "Thank you," or "Please Come back next week."

Lona, John, Faye and Mary take care of business as I pry my wrist from her fingernails.

"I'll do my part," I smile, hugging her. "I don't like being sick."

"Don't die," she says.

"It's not on my 'To Do List' either," I reply rubbing my hands.

I kiss the top of her white head ... surely breaking shitloads of HIPPA requirements for Nursing Homes.

The two little old ladies sitting besideher  look at me expectantly so I laugh and kiss them too ... shattering the record of HIPPA violations in a Nursing Home.

It's funny.

We're not allowed to take their pictures but ... each and every one of them want a touch ... a hug ... a kiss ... and a promise to come back next week.

"Hey," I say grabbing her wrist, "I'll make a deal with you. I won't die if you don't die."

Breaking into a grin, she lays her white haired head in my hands and cries.

I hug her again and cry too.

To Hell with HIPPA.