Days at The Hospital
20111017 @ Monday, October 17, 2011
“You were the hope that kept me trusting”
There was a cafeteria
on the ground floor of the hospital, and on most days I used to go there,
mainly to hear voices other than my own. Normally, I arrived around tea-time,
and over the weeks I began to recognize the regulars. Most were employees, but
there was an elderly woman who seems to be there every time I arrived. Though,
I’d never spoken to her, I learnt from Li Nar, the nurse, that the woman’s
husband had already been in the intensive care unit when Nick was admitted.
Something about complications from diabetes, and whenever I saw the woman
eating a bowl of soup, I thought about her husband upstairs. It was easy to
imagine the worst: a patient hooked up to a dozen machines, endless rounds of
surgery, possible amputation, a man barely hanging on. It wasn’t my business to
ask, and I wasn’t even certain that I wanted to know the truth, if only because
it felt as though I couldn’t summon the concern I knew I needed to show. My
ability to empathize, it seems to me, had evaporated.
Still, I watched her, curious about what I
could learn from her. While the knot in my stomach never seemed to settle
enough for me to swallow a few bites of anything, she not only ate her entire
meal, but seemed to enjoy it. While I found it impossible to focus long enough
on anything other than my own needs and my friends daily existence, she read
novels during lunch, and more than once I’d see her laughing quietly at a
passage that amused her. And unlike me, she still maintained an ability to
smile, one she offered willingly to those who passed her table.
Sometimes, in that smile, I thought I could
see a trace of loneliness, even as I chided myself for imagining something that
probably wasn’t there. I couldn’t help wondering about her marriage. Because of
her age, I assumed they’d celebrated a silver, even golden, anniversary. Most
likely, there were kids, even if I’d never seen them. I wondered whether they’d
been happy, for she seemed to be taking her husband’s illness in stride, while
I walked the corridors of the hospital feeling as if a single wrong step would
send me crumpling to the floor.
I didn’t know whether I should admire the
woman or feel sorry for her. I always turned away before she caught me
starring. I remember pushing aside my tray, feeling ill. My sandwich was only
half-eaten. I debated whether to bring it back with me to the room but I knew I
wouldn’t have finished it there either. I turned toward the window.
The cafeteria overlooked a small green space,
and I watched the world change outside.
