Sketch Sixteen

The Hall

In the hall of Lutheran Hospital, the hall that connects the third floor of the Orthopedics Hospital to the regular part of the hospital are windows on each side--large windows that a car can go through, windows that start two feet from the floor and stop two feet from the ceiling, windows that aren't divided by much except about every three to five, where a piece of wall jets out. The windows are situated much like window seats without a cushions. In this hall are three offices and a small boutique center, which is no longer in business. The offices and the empty boutique divide up one side of the hall, making a center nook, the place where I sleep in the evening. This is how the three offices and the empty boutique are arranged: The empty boutique and one office is placed closes to the regular hospital, the office down the hall. Some 30 feet is left for chairs and tables, the nook I mentioned, before the next two offices appear. After those offices, another open space where the windowed-wall cuts into the doors that lead to the Orthopedics Hospital. The offices, upon inspection one day, when noticing a door open, has the very same large windows as the hallway. Here, in the nook, a pocket of sorts, is my bedroom by night. The chairs and couches in this part of the hall are different from those in the other cubby hole area and the waiting are for ICU, except for the chairs used around the tables. (I must stop this observation briefly to tell you about one conversation I can hear, one of many that becomes part of this hallway: much grief finds its way to this hall. An older gentleman with a midlife women pass me to stand in front of the empty boutique. She begins to cry, he pats her back, in a hug I suspect, but I can hear the light patting; whispers and whimpers persist. There is much of this here; and still there is laughter as families meet, coming to know grief, often over an older person, not the young--the young are few here.)

Back to those windows; they intrigue me. The large windows allow vision to the construction of the main hospital, a fifth floor addition. Sometimes I imagine the crane not functioning correctly, the items upon its lift smashing through the hall. Here, it is quieter, even during the day, less traffic, even when the carts come barreling through with equipment and people walking to and from each hospital. The waiting room is always full, the elevator always busy.

As I attempt to finish this sketch, I am not in the hallway. I cannot honestly recall the wall colors. I can see the pattern in the chairs: the green and green blue colors. As vivid as I think the pattern is in my mind, as often as I have it, I'm without words to describe it because it is not in front of me. At a glance, from memory, a person can assume it is camouflage, which I say it is, but the pattern . . . I must see it, is not truly leaves and twigs--or is it. I've yet to determine if there is a genuine pattern with all the times I have stared at it. (Again grief can be heard as I sit alone in the hallway, sit on one of the couches that make up my makeshift bed late at night; a man talking to a brother, a sister, I do not know who, but someone who comes across as family by the way he speaks. His mother has been sent her from St. Joe. The situation is not good. She has been made more ill by the actions taken at St. Joe. His anger doesn't override his grief, but his voice speaks the pain of negligence, of lawsuit. The many different issues that bring us here.)

I have made time to write while in the hallway. My makeshift bed all tore down, I sit looking about me. The walls are a dirty cream, not quite a tan with a peach tint. Those chairs--let me get to them in a moment. The floor is carpeted: green mainly, a dark green, probably a hunter green with a cream and barn red in a splattered patterns highlighting the greens. This carpet comes in a darker type pattern as well, which creates a square outline in some areas of the hall--well this one is rectangle. Now for the chairs and couches: a person can witness leaves and twigs, but the lay out of the pattern is very deceptive because squares come in--some squares have tattered edges. There are a few vines with leaves at the tips, but don't stand out. The colors of this pattern also throws a person off: slate gray, off-dirty white, three to four tones of green with a blue hint in them. The couch pattern I've stared at mostly develops its own character, an entity, as if it shifts shapes, moves as if uncomfortable with its being: an eye within a jaw, the jaw jetting out sharply like that of a broken skull where the jaw protrudes. This same pattern repeats, but because of its position on this couch it stands alone.

There are two coffee tables in here; all the tables are alike among the three areas. The top is bordered by light colored wood, the same wood used for the legs (and beneath most likely). It feels like polished compressed wood. The top itself might be formica, a tan, brown mixture of colors in a splattered-marbled pattern.

Oh, those chairs have wood along the back and the cushions are divided by the same wood, making the couches look like individual seats, three side by side. The couches and chairs are wood framed benches of sort.

On one wall hangs a TV--LG; a light switch at the edge of this wall (this is the wall against the centered offices). Across from it, on the other wall, hangs a picture. Until now, I have not noticed it, I have not paid attention to it, nor looked at it.

I will not be finishing this sketch unless my son is placed back into ICU. He has moved to the regular part of the hospital, meaning he is better. There is much more to sketch.

I find myself writing . . .

in my head, but I have no pen, no paper, no laptop, and when I do, I am often too tired, wishing there was a recorder attached to my brain to record the words that come through. I should be sleeping. I said goodnight to my friends, to my family, finished the movie, but find myself here. The one night I can be in bed early. Multiple visions bombard me as each turn of events happen; it is like life projected through a movie camera. Some of you will find this statement odd, bizarre, scary, creepy, while saying, she is nuts: the spirit world will not leave me alone, and I'm not talking dreams alone. I only get peace at night by making sure I say a prayer not only for Vince and the family, but for myself, then fall asleep praying (I must--this is the only relief). For those of you who do not believe, there is no light I can share on this; if you have not experienced it, you will not understand. Many years ago I closed this door. The door is no longer shut. I do not believe I am to shut it, now, or ever again. I ask for continual prayers as I learn to adjust to this life, both dealing with what the family is dealing with and what has returned to me.

Most of my time is now spent in the hospital. If I am not on campus, I am here, with the exception of being home on occasion. Vincent is dictating some my decisions right now. I have managed four nights away since the beginning of this ordeal, only because Vincent has said he felt comfortable with me leaving or because necessity said I had to. If any of you want to help in another way, other than prayers, send up some home cooked meals, plus a gas card or two--if possible (I do not fear begging right now).

As soon as I can, I have a sketch to put up: the hospital hallway I spent most of my nights in. I have many more sketches planned out. Time mostly consists of listening to information, learning the therapies Vincent must do, understanding treatments, grading students' work and planning for classes, making phone calls and texts--texts keeping attached to the outside world, dealing with home issues from the hospital, and working on getting Vincent's paperwork down (with the help of my daughter, who is handling most of that end). If you say you can't imagine this, you are right, you can't. I still can't, but I am doing it. While I am becoming more accustomed to the new lifestyle, it is still surreal (the word that sums it up best). Out of all I have watched done, there is still one aspect I cannot take--the secretions that Vincent must clear from his chest everyday via the trachea. I guess that's my biggest weakest.

If you wish to follow what is happening more closely, my oldest daughter does well keeping Vinny's Journey page posted on FaceBook. If you don't find it with those two words, add PNET, the short term for the type of cancer he has.

I will attempt more journeys here. I need to.

Sketch Thirteen

The night we came into the hospital, the only couch had no vacancy, and had none for a week. An old lady with short silver and white hair kept a make shift bed upon the couch all day. I thought nothing of it until the waiting area became crowded during the day be visitors up to see loved ones in ICU, many to see loved ones in the restricted area of ICU. A decent relationship started between I and the old lady, but I knew she was a person that must have her own way. I could never look at her, look at her long enough to see what she wore, either in a wheel chair or on the couch, and after a few days of her presence, of her loudness, I spoke to her little, looked her way little. The one part of her I remember clearly is the oxygen tube under her nose. The second part of her I clearly remember is the attitude that she could do as she pleased while others must suffer and be condemned by talking behind the back. I snickered the day I overheard another older lady say, "She said that this one family came in, leaving their children jump on chairs, fun all over, and putting dirty diapers into the trash bins in the waiting area; that the family had the whole room stinking." Funny thing, her grandchildren threw paper airplanes all over the waiting area, and ran around, nearly bumping into people, without her even batting an eye. Funny, she talked about other families as well, but I would pay her no attention. She was definitely a woman who needed to have all eyes upon her: "Not I," said this women when the old lady attempted to interrupt a conversation.

What Could Be Worse?

Of all the things I could have imagined to go through, this is not the one thing: watching my child go through cancer of the brain (one large tumor, and some small ones--not told how many). The tumor is aggressive. His process from the second surgery, which was emergency, is slow. The time frame is small to begin procedures to "kill" the tumors. I am in a dream world; if you wish to know surreal, place yourself in my shoes. When you are told to live your life day to day, that is what is meant. Vincent"s advancements are a day to day success, with the occasional set back. Each piece of news comes with mixed emotions because most is attached to "if." My chest has not stopped hurting since the day he was wheeled quickly back to surgery. I have not left the hospital in the evening since that time either. I have found my way back to work. Working has helped to relieve some of the stress. Amazingly, my family has kept phone calls during my campus hours to none, which allows for NO PANIC. However, I miss Vincent attempting to call or text during those times.

If I knew the name of the cancer right off the top of my head, I would give it to you. I only know that it is rare, especially in young women and men over the age of 18. Simply put, the cancer is rare in children, and in that rarity, only 1% over 18 get it. Unlike many cancers, this cancer responds well to radiation and chemotherapy.  The worse part is that the cancer grows quickly. The window for opportunity is slim. Progress is needed in the healing department. Everyone is doing all they can do, and even Vincent is fighting. I keep hearing he will be good, that I will have a son come home. It is difficult to see this. I'm sitting on the fence because I know the slim window of opportunity.

I will attempt to do my sketch work again. I need that distraction as well.Once the swelling decreases to safe numbers, I will go home in the evening to rest. For now, I stay here. Internet access is poor here. Luckily, tonight, I have the internet card, allowing me to do some things instead of quickly getting needed information done at home when I drop in briefly. I had to decide what I would do tonight: read students' papers, or take some time for just me. Obviously, I took time for me.