Ward 54

Trigger Warning: References to Dialysis

Ward 54

The crinkle of the starched sheets as I try again to get comfortable is a loud contrast to the deafening silence of my room; it’s preferable this way, though. At least the silence is my choice instead of the overwhelming chaos of the four-bedroom. That’s where this game began, and I, without a doubt in my mind, choose silence every day. I guess there is a strange benefit to being female in a mostly male-populated ward. Maybe…

“How did you sleep, love?” The nurse says, smiling at me but not with her eyes. I try to reflect on how I slept; it always seems like a blur when the night shift staff come on. Blood pressure checks hourly, my monitor is constantly beeping, and then 3 am blood cultures because apparently, I’ve spiked yet another temp. But maybe that was the night before…fortunately for me, she doesn’t wait for a reply…. I can see she has just heard the buzzer from the nurses’ station, and her mind is already halfway out the door. Not that I blame her, there is always someone needing something around here, and it feels as though nurses are in short and well overused supply.

With every ounce of energy (which at this stage is very little), I force myself to confront the whiteboard down the hall. I’m not sure if the whiteboard represents liberation or confinement. Maybe it’s a bit of both. But whenever I see my name highlighted for the day's session, I feel overwhelmed by a deep sense of dread that is immediately followed by gut-wrenching guilt, as I know many other patients must be hooked up to the machine every day. So, I should be grateful, shouldn’t I? I try to will this feeling of gratitude to surface, but it never does. I play this daily dance, wondering if everyone else is thinking the same thing. I wonder if the nurses can read it all over my face. I hope not.

As I move around this place, I can’t help but lock eyes with people; it’s the boredom that makes me stare. There is never an introduction or greeting or even a friendly smile. The old me would have felt it necessary to say hello and make conversation. Instead, we live in a place of what I like to call mutual understanding. It lets each of us off the hook from polite pleasantries. Like a silent acceptance that we are strangers, but we are now walking the same path, if not together, at least side by side. Which I think provides some sense of comfort. Doesn’t it?

I turn and see the man who was discharged yesterday lying asleep on the ground in the hallway. Next to him is a half-eaten food tray. His arm is draped over it like his life depends on it—and maybe it does. The system really is broken.

“There you are, we have been looking for you”. The same nurse from earlier ushers me into a wheelchair. I’m not even entirely sure where we’re going. I’ve really moved into that space where less information is preferable and just more manageable. How I got to this mental space, I just don’t know.

We move past dialysis and the nurse’s station, through the ward, and towards the elevators. The nurse clicks Level 1, which makes me think we are heading to the X-ray department, but at this stage, who really knows? As soon as the elevator doors open, I feel it rush over me in an instant. It’s like the tide lapping at my feet on a crisp winter morning. Fresh air never felt so good. We’re not even outside, but the difference is undeniable. Is this the moment you realise you’ve been in hospital too long? I don’t care, though. I drink in as much as possible, and I can almost feel the sun on my face.

Bringing me back to the present, we round the corner, heading down another long corridor. The nurse tells me I have pneumonia, and so they need a chest X-ray to confirm…I’m unsure what we are confirming; nevertheless, I continue to go through the motions. The chest X-ray is more taxing than I anticipated, though. I only have to stand upright and still for about 20 seconds, which seemed doable when explained initially. Now that I’m standing here, I’m fighting the urge to sit down. I imagine I’m a descending iceberg fighting to keep myself above water.

…

Jim’s pleading to go home again, at least I think that’s his name. It’s a strange activity piecing people’s lives together from a bed down the hall. He still doesn’t know why he is here; he just wants to go home to his couch and watch Wheel of Fortune. God, I wish someone would put it on for him. We could all use some fortune in this place. Why is it that in times like these, it’s the simplest of things that people pine for?

Jim walks past my room, and I quickly avert my eyes. I feel a deep sense of shame as I do this, though. But I fear that if he comes in here, he will never leave. Yesterday, he spent the entire day behind the desk at the nurses’ station, which did make me smile. It’s not that I’m heartless. The old me would have made eye contact and said hello. But not now… I’m barely keeping myself together, like a loose thread ready to be pulled. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to shoulder anyone else.

Something has been happening next door, and sadly, I think it’s the thing we are all here to avoid. When all of us are trying to outrun it, it’s bound to catch up to someone. I can hear his family filling his cup with kind and supportive words. The type of words people often say at the end. It’s strange that we save these words for the finish line. It makes me start to wonder what type of man he really is… Is he the incredible man they are holding him up to be? Or do people gain a different perspective when faced with death? Or maybe they just see themselves in him and are glad they don’t have to trade places? Regardless of their reasons, I can hear the undeniable emotion of love down the phone, which has not stopped ringing all day, and I can see it in the enormous number of people congregating in the hallway, if we could all be so lucky.

An eerie silence abruptly takes over the hall, even the young children stop their playing. I've come to realise that this means it's happened, what they’ve all come for. I’ve learnt here that people are often able to fill the space in the moments and time before, but then they seem to run out of words or have already given all that they can, so instead, a chill silence that no one really knows how to navigate falls over the hospital room.

I’ve been trying to focus on the beauty and strength that can be found in death. I’m not sure why I think it came about to keep my sanity around all this dying, or maybe it’s just the countless hours I've spent in this bed that have enabled my wandering mind. But I couldn’t detect a sad note in his voice all day; he wasn’t looking for pity but only giving thanks and well wishes for everyone around him. I think this is a true strength that isn’t found in everyone. Whatever questionable decision led him here, at least he was able to go out with dignity. I suppose you really don’t know what you’re made of until the very end.

I hear a woman talk about the final journey and their people's spiritual connection to the bird of life. She tells it to the children with an assuring smile on her face, but she can’t deny the tears streaming down her face. Again, I'm entranced by the display of strength. I see the children on tiptoes looking out the window, trying to find his spirit flying to the spirit world. It all seems a bit far-fetched and glorified for my rigid mind, but I can’t help but find my eyes drifting out the window, looking for a set of soaring wings, too.

A sense of calm washes over me, ultimately achieved by the actions of an unnamed stranger. His voice has cemented itself in my mind. I want to ask his family for his name, but it doesn’t seem right, so instead I focus on the sky and think about my departure from Ward 54.