Room 222

Room 222

The air was empty of sound. Darkness surrounded me. The silence was deafening. A long, lonely hallway, empty of the usual medical paraphernalia, stretched out before me. No nurses, doctors, or even housekeepers were roaming the opaque tiled floors.

I needed to find room 222, where my mother lay in her sick bed. At 90-years-of-age, she had fallen on the bathroom floor and had broken her hip. Surgery was done yesterday, and she had developed an infection around the new hip.

No lights, no beeping from the heart monitor, and no nurses.

I scanned the doors, but they had no numbers. I glanced into one of the rooms, and there were no beds. No curtains separated the beds that weren’t there. Wheelchairs were missing. The visitor's chair was gone. The bedside table for meal trays and personal items was also missing.

Something was wrong today.

Yesterday… the ambulance rushed to the hospital, lights flashing and a screaming siren. Patients filled the waiting room. Nurses rushed around while doctors sat at the desk studying reports. A woman passed by with a cart filled with drugs. A dark-haired man pushed a broom across the well-polished floor.

Then, my mother was taken to a small room, and I stayed with the triage nurse to give information about her fall. With raw emotion, I tried to give the details without faltering. The truth was that I didn’t see what happened, but I heard the result of the fall. It was enough to send me over the edge. Courage, I needed courage and strength.

Later…a gurney carried her into the cold operating room. I sat in another small room along with three other anxious individuals. For a time, no one spoke. A sound, barely audible from a television mounted in the corner, recapped the news of a bombing in Paris.

“Who are you here for?” asked the woman sitting next to me.

“My mother,” I answered. “And you?”

“My husband,” she said, tears gathering in her eyes.

“I’m sorry. Is it serious?” I asked.

“He’s got cancer. They’re going to try to remove it.”

“I’m sure you’ll see him soon,” I said.

“I hope so,” she said. “We will be married thirty years in September. What’s wrong with your mother?”

“She fell and broke her hip when she stepped out of the shower,” I said. “She just turned ninety on Saturday.”

The woman was called away. A few minutes later, I heard a deep, raw cry that eventually turned into shallow, shaky breaths. I knew her fears were realized.

Anxiety threatened to choke me as I sat in the empty room. The other two who were waiting for whoever had left quietly. Even the subtle sound of the television couldn’t fill the void I felt. I was alone. Would my mother make it through her operation, or would I also receive the bitter pill?

A nurse approached me in my blank state, drawing me back to reality. I studied her face for signs of unpleasant results. Blank. Just like the empty room.

“Your mother is in recovery now. You can see her in a little while, when she wakes up.”

Sometimes I wonder how these nurses survive such tragedy. We all heard the terrible cry of grief caused by the death of the young man with cancer. So much pain and suffering. Did the nurse need to empty herself of all emotion to be able to survive?

When I finally got to my mother, relief flooded through my body. Her white hair and pale face disappeared in the white sheets, surrounded by white walls as the nurse in green stood by the bed, pumping the blood pressure cuff. Life is so precious, I thought.

“Your mother will be admitted to the 3rd floor for a few days,” the doctor explained. “Given her age, we want to monitor her.” It seemed unnecessary to explain why she would be admitted, but I thought that if they suggested sending her home, I would object.

“Does your mom live alone?” the doctor asked.

“No, she’s with me,” I answered.

The bed containing my mother rolled down the hall, entered the elevator, and then exited on the third floor. Room 222--not hard to remember. The nurse pinned her call bell to her pillow and moved on to the patient in bed A. My mother was peaceful. The anxiety that had threatened me earlier hid for a time in a subconscious cubicle. I knew it was there. It was always there.

I left for lunch and errands and then returned to the hospital. The nurse met me at the elevator. She had a smile on her face, so I knew the news would be pleasant.

“Your mother is the most wonderful patient we have had for a while,” she said. “She’s been telling us stories about her life. Such an exciting, beautiful life.”

Room 222 – I walked through the door with a light step and a wide smile as my eyes locked with my mother’s. We shared a knowing look, familiar from years together and our experiences.

Sunlight reflected off the metal on the bedside table. Her Bible lay open beside a water jug, her brush, and a box of tissues. A soft pink bedspread lay across her legs, and a blue chair sat empty beside her bed.

I moved toward the chair. ‘No sign of suffering’, I told my anxiety. I will enjoy her for another day. We talked and laughed and talked some more. Then, weariness clouded her face, and I watched her drift into a restful sleep. I sat in the blue chair, watching her. Then, I went home.

 Sometime around midnight, the phone rang. I was on my way back to the hospital. My mother needed me. No details were given about what happened during the night, just that I was needed.

As I pulled into the hospital parking lot-- it was empty. At this hour, it was probably common to have so many empty parking spaces. Streetlights shone down on me as I hurried toward the door.

Emptiness. Dim hallways. Empty rooms. No people.

I struggled through heavy doors. Weakness and anxiety forced their way in, bringing with them a lack of air. Electrical currents shorted out in my brain as I searched frantically for my mother. Room 222--did she go where the young man had gone?

“Mom! Mom!” my daughter shook me. “You are having a bad dream. Wake up now. Everything’s ok.”