Hospital

Nonfiction account of a hospital in the middle of summer. It is the beginning of a long day of waiting.

  

            Mid-July in Houston means stifling humidity and more mosquitoes than anyone could humanly repel. It rains often, and the air always carries a distinct stench of pollution and wet, a soft rotting heat that eats away at awareness until you want to do nothing more than sink into a stupor while the day crawls by. Waves of heat from the overhead sun rise from the asphalt parking lots, wavering and dancing on the air before the afternoon rainstorm moves in to turn it all to steam. It is hot outside, it is dirty outside, but it is cold in that hospital.

            Hospitals smell without smell, a sanitary iciness that reaches deep inside a person and wraps around their heart. We were no strangers to this one, but any time I had to pass through those doors I felt a trill of fear, and a twist of nausea as that not-smell burned in my nose. Clear Lake Regional carried familiar, terrifying scenery, and that day we were to wait once again in the Intensive Care Unit waiting room. It is a room with tan walls, laid out with a large sprinkling of chairs whose appearances belied how comfortable they really weren't. A small desk squatted in the back of the room, carrying a phone, and staffed by an elderly volunteer who took down names of those waiting. It was really a list of would-be mourners. Paintings dotted the walls here and there, but I never paid attention to the paintings, just as I never paid attention to the small television they had set in the far back wall. A nervous mind cannot focus for long on such minuscule details, and my mind was prone to wandering enough as it was.

            This day, however, I had been sent to scout out a location for the large group we were towing along with us, and I moved to a small off-shoot of the waiting room. It was an indentation along the walls, between the doors to recovery and the ICU itself, separate from the main waiting room. A good place to linger for whenever my father came out of those double doors. A good place to share the relief once the hellish day came to an end. Over the years we had gotten familiar with this place, but this was the first time that I could really recall being completely terrified of the outcome. They were going to be cutting close to an artery while the performed the fusion in my father's busted spine, and any small mistake could cause a huge problem.

            I taped a sign I had made to the wall, ignoring the strange looks passing nurses gave it. It was crudely drawn, scribbled on with marker. Big red letters announced that this was Chris's cheerleader squad, and it served as a beacon for those who were to gather to cheer my father on. Satisfied with its semi-cockeyed alignment on the wall, I settled down into one of those pink cushioned chairs, slumping against the wall. Already my fingers drummed nervously against the armrest, and already my foot tapped against the sparkling tile. It hadn't even started, and I already wanted it to end.

           

Author's Note

Again, different from my usual stock. This was an exercise I did for my nonfiction writing class in January of 2009.