Apathy Waiting At The HospitalTuesday, December 11, 2012
|Poltronissima by Funky64|
Babies cry. Children can't wait for fun to begin the second their parents turn their backs.
More waiting. It is excruciating. And sleep feels inviting but I am incapable of snoozing in public. More coughing, throat-clearing that sounds like lung-hurling.
A collective sense of stupor hangs about the space. And the occasional jump-back to earth is triggered by the opening and shutting of doors and horrifying sounds from the back of someone's throat.
I become hyper-aware of germs, the idea of nasty little microbes dancing in the air, on door knobs and the stained seat that my posterior rests upon is making me squirm mentally.
A momentary sense of empathy arises for the cleaners, handymen, white-coated modern witches, nurses, patients and the fresh-looking interns..
Young smug faces that always look so familiar. Is that pride, purpose or a feigned exterior worn just to distract? I don't know, perhaps I'm projecting. A doctor's typical type-A personality stride.
The patients grow in number. More new germs added to the mix. More waiting, breathing and sighing, more breathing in and out to sigh some more.
The AC is killing my bones. My bones are freezing and I grow anxious.
A hospital's no fun place except for when I'm viewing it on the screen when it's used as a haunted ground where spooky souls of mad doctors and loopy patients reign. Cue in the American Horror Story.
Back to the dirty seat. I feel like an extension of it as I start to eavesdrop on old men talking out loud in their thick native tongue of family members long past and places they used to work at.
More people amble into the frozen space.
Waiting in the hospital isn't the same as just waiting in the park or at a train station.
There's an air of decay, disintegration in the facades of living. If not now, it will be soon.
I will be dead soon, and everyone I love will too. This direct realization bounded within the concrete walls where doctors strive to keep people healthy seems mocking and the art of waiting that I thought I had in spades now proves to be in need of polishing.
I feel sick.
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shanaz@RS | 12:19 AM | Labels: short prose therapy