I am in the hospital, currently with some clarity of mind (which is questionable if you sang the Ode to Christine Colon song). The surgery was Sunday, before the dawn. Today is Thursday, May 21… hmm… I thought it was Friday. I just gained a day.
When a person hits the hospital, there is a LOT of walking. Walking keeps your lungs from filling with fluid and causing pneumonia. And walking deters blood clots. There is no point in saving me from something crazy, and then letting me die from something stupid.
For me, walking is also an energy transfer. When I am in pain, I can move the pain through and back into the earth, or away from me however that happens. This floor is a rectangular loop that has a mid section, so daredevil races with the figure eight could occur. The race is slow, very slow. Like one mile an hour might be average walking speed here. Ten laps are a mile. I walked almost two miles yesterday!
The people are trying to heal. They are hunched and gray. They cling to poles filled with IV’s and contraptions. At one point, my pole had three IVs and one contraption, the most that I have witnessed.
Each person has a story. And each room has a personality. I have tears as I type this. There is a Mr. Rodger’s type of old guy who was across the wing. Every time I passed his room, he would wave and smile. We never spoke. But he is in my heart. I could feel him there, and I loved him.
There is a woman who struggles with each step, holding a walker, but towing no drugs. She asked, “Did you have colon surgery too?” (Odd question. This is the surgical floor, ALL surgery recovery.) I said, “Yes I did”. She waited two months because of Covid 19 to have a cancerous polyp removed, and it grew an extra inch. “How are you doing so well?”, she asked. “I have been here longer; you’ll do the same.” It was her day after surgery, my fourth out.
There is a race car man, a guy I could see running marathons on the weekend. He lapped me so many times it was laughable. I bet his speed exceeded three miles per hour!
One middle aged man was dark and rageful. He wore a maroon polo and matching shorts. I never witnessed an exit from the parameters of his space, but heard him lashing out at nurses, doctors and techs as I passed on repeated loops. So much pain. So much to heal. How long had he been there? How much longer would he be required to stay?
An elderly woman was barely conscious. A young woman with long blonde hair could only traverse a short distance of floor.
Each one has a story, a very personal story. Every pain radiates into the Universal. If I focused as I walked, I would cry. Cry for the individuality, cry for the pain, cry for the beauty and the rage. I would cry because I loved the Mr. Rodgers man with all of my heart. As I crept by for the 59th time, he waved to me and smiled.
micheleplumbstowell.org 