She hadn't showered in three days. Or combed her hair for that matter. Hospitals had a way of stripping bare any expectations of functioning independently, getting out of bed, regular sleep, dignity.
The day before last, a hunched priest hobbled in and anointed her in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit before she could protest. He'd also forgiven her sins before shuffling away. She wasn't dying was she, Father? The nurse said he was mostly deaf.
Mornings began before sunrise when they came for blood. The blinds remained drawn because light hurt her eyes. She sucked on ice chips and wished for beer. At night or in the day, she slept suddenly and briefly and dreamed about the end of the world.
When the curtain slide aside, its rungs clattering like muted gunfire, she blinked awake. A sharp light appeared, grinding into her eyes, first the left then the right. The nurse nudged the bed and for a moment she thought she'd died and mourners were rolling the bier that bore her toward the inevitable. Exhaustion was sapping her hope, that was clear.
But he hadn't left in three days. When the nurse was gone, he wrapped her in a bear hug, careful to avoid the nodes and the wires and the IV, the needle-bruised places. And that's when she knew she wasn't going to die. You hear that, Father?
1 comment:
beautiful+sad. nice to have you back. walk good.
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