Thursday, March 26, 2015
In the hell of hospital land, you can go for days without seeing a doctor. You can go for days without finding out anything at all. Does my mother have pneumonia that's a result of a virus or bacteria? Or is the fluid from congestive heart failure on a little vacation visiting her lungs? I don't know. Here on day four in hospital land, I'm willing to say, I might never know.
Here in hôpital land, if you're 90 and weak and arthritic, you could starve trying to open your little packets of butter, jam, mayo, mustard, ketchup, sugar, coffee creamer, the lid on your coffee, juice, your carton of milk. Where the hell are all of the school kids who need to log volunteer hours? Get over here with your lithe and nimble fingers. Please.
Here in hospital land, they give you menus for your next day's meals and no pencils. They give you plastic devices to cough phlegm into without opening the package and assembling the thing.
So I'm here in hospital land. Visiting with my nimble fingers and my purse full of pencils. For every meal, I'm here. (Not going anywhere near the phlegm thing.) Camped out. Keeping vigil. Somewhere in this damned place, there's a doctor. I'm sure of it.
The plastic owl on the rooftop and I are waiting.