Strange Days

Frequently I drive past the hospital I lived in for several wretched weeks of my life. Each time I do I look up at the line of windows on the third floor and though I cannot make out which of the regular third floor rooms was mine I feel that there may be someone looking down, from one of those rooms, or from the long windows at the end of the hallway, just as I did hour after hour, pacing the halls praying to either be well or just die.

I think of all the people up there just struggling to breathe as if the world sits on their chest. I feel how hard it is. I hear the machines. I see the lines form on their families' faces from nights of no sleep and the realization that they cannot take any of the pain away or bear any of the burden for the ones they love. I have seen the same lines on my families' faces.

I realize even more clearly each time that even with all of the people you love around you, when you are struggling every second of every minute of every hour of every day just to cope with the pain and how tired you are and how you just don't want to breathe anymore, you are still very much alone. No one can fight this fight for you. The scary thing about death is that when you die you die alone no matter how fast or slow it goes, no matter who is holding your hand. They can't do it for you and they can't go with you. Even though I could not have struggled through what I did without Terry right there with me and the thought of needing to get home to my babies, every time I had to go through those swinging doors alone I felt the reality of how alone that really is.

Then I look up at the room just above the Emergency room sign. It never fails, I always slow down to look. That was my room for the better part of my stay. During the day I look to see if windows are open. Signs that someone is there now. At night I can see in. I see the television, I see the lights, I see the doorway. Each time I say the same few things in my head..."Maybe you are watching me drive by the way I watched the rest of the world drive by. Maybe you, like me, were so very tired and scared and in pain. I don't know you, but I feel you. I know you are there. Alone. Struggling. You may not realize it but I know you, I care about you. I hope you get better."

Tonight as I was driving home from watching a movie at the theater I passed the hospital and someone was in my room. A lump formed in my throat as I remembered that very soon I might be moving away from here. It would seem insane to most people that I don't welcome the opportunity to run as far away from the place as I can possibly get, but for me it has the opposite effect now. I used to get panic attacks when I walked through the front doors. The smell of the place would bring tears to my eyes. The thought of being inside the building would make me sick to my stomach.

Time has passed. I now feel like it stands as a reminder to me of how strong I actually am. It reminds me to be humble for the things we all take for granted every second of our lives. It reminds me every single time I pass it that all of those seconds I fought to breathe and walk and talk and just sleep through the excruciating pain were all monumental accomplishments for me. I felt like I was saying "Fuck You, Death" each time I made it through another day there.

My scars might be disturbing and make most people squeamish but sometimes when I look in the mirror I don't see all the ugliness I usually do. Sometimes I see strength and endurance. Everyday in the mirror I see a reminder of just how precious and fragile life is. They will be a constant reminder of the struggle between life and death no matter how far away I am from those faces pressed against the glass at the end of the hallway on the third floor. These are my battle scars.

However, never driving past that hospital again and remembering how strong I was and how many obstacles I overcame will be strange. Never waving up to all those people who just might be looking out and feeling like no one even knows they exist makes me sad. Never going back and seeing all the people who took care of me and who cleaned me up and smiled at me even when I couldn't smile back, that will be hard. Not all of them tried to kill me. Some of them saved my life. They wouldn't let me quit. I will miss some of them. I had always thought that someday when the smoke cleared I might go back and volunteer there in some way. Pay it forward. Now I may not get the chance.

I know it is all very strange.

Posted by gwendolyn on March 23, 2004 at 02:39 AM