Hospitalization

Splashes of color bathed my face as I stood and marveled at nature’s gift-a sunset of such beauty and splendor that my breath sucked in through my teeth. A smile creased my face as I watched, as a kind of peace suffused me. Peace had been difficult for me to find.

"Deanna, where are you,” my father’s bark reached my ears and I winced, turning and reluctantly leaving my precious moment of solitude behind. “Coming, dad,” I called patiently. I heaved another deep breath, one meant to infuse patience, and I resolutely trudged back into the house, my feet feeling heavier with every step.

“What do you need, dad?”

My father, a man who had once been the rock of our large family, looked resentfully at me through red-rimmed eyes. “I need you here, that’s what I need.” The barking intensified as I could practically hear his teeth grind. “You know I can’t take care of myself. Why do you walk away like that?”

He used to be quiet, sweet, strong. Since his illness-and the hospital stay that had altered his universe-he’d become someone I didn’t recognize. “Dad, I walked outside for a minute. I wanted some air.”

“You want, you want.” Spittle formed on his chapped lips. “It’s always about you! I’m sick, I can’t take care of myself, I’m an invalid. What about ME!”

I took an involuntary step back and felt a shudder race through me. Of all people I’d never expected my father to be this way, even in the face of a terminal disease. I could remember that day I received the news; I’d felt my safe haven-the home I grew up in-crash down around my ears. Even now while my father, this stranger in my father’s body, emitted venom from his mottled face, I sighed with regret. I was glad, ironically, that my mother wasn’t around to see what he’d become.

I wheeled him into his room off the kitchen, a pantry converted for convenience, and after bearing the brunt of his wrath until I was almost in tears, I resolved to do something about this situation. As his only single daughter I’d been “chosen” by the rest of the clan to move into my childhood home and spearhead his care, but occasionally I called on one of my ultra-busy siblings to “father-sit.” I called my oldest sister.

“I can’t get over there now,” she whined.

“Okay,” I responded sweetly. “I’ll just get him up from his bed and bring him over to you. Michael should love that.”

I heard a martyred sigh and smiled through gritted teeth. My sister’s husband was not the most understanding or benevolent of men. “Give me half an hour.”

I washed my face to clear it of unshed tears and stared at myself in the old bathroom mirror. I’d aged by years in the months since moving in with my father. Not even thirty and I could see frown lines forming between my wide-spaced brown eyes. I spotted a few gray hairs as I brushed my dark tresses back into a ponytail and shook my head in despair. I loved my father but didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to stand this. Which was the reason for my mission. I had developed a rapport with my dad’s internist and knew he was currently at the hospital performing his evening rounds. I planned to discuss my father’s condition, express to him the fact that I simply couldn’t put up with much more bad behavior, and perhaps ask for a new sort of medication to counteract his mood. It was either that or move him into a home. The stress was just becoming too much for me.

My sister arrived in a flurry of meatloaf aroma and irritation, still complaining about the need to wander out in the evening and I left. As I drove I glanced up at the night sky and noticed eerie white clouds flitting across the sky, covering the glitter of stars. I shivered from more than cold. For days I’d been feeling some sort of unease, a sensation of “someone walking over my grave,” as my mother would have said. My mother. I didn’t want to think about her because I missed her in every fiber of my being. She’d been talkative, funny, irreverent. And now she was dead. As the youngest of seven children, my mother and father had been older when I’d come along, so my present state as an almost-orphan was no surprise. But it was still painful. I wiped a tear that meandered its way down my face and pulled into a parking space at the local hospital, resolving not to leave until I got some help from someone, hopefully the intern.

I couldn’t believe how quiet the parking lot seemed as I walked across. I noticed some people here and there, but it was obvious the day was winding down. I squinted against the florescent lights of the interior as I entered and approached the information desk. “Hi, I’m looking for Dr. Polanski.” The woman in a blue volunteer’s smock shushed me as she finished a phone call in quiet tones and then glanced up at me.

“Who did you say?” I repeated the request and she punched buttons on a computer. “He’s up on six,” she responded. I pushed away from the desk and began to walk away. “Excuse me,” the woman called me back. I stared at her for a minute, but the intensity of her gaze drew me back.

“What,” I asked, not quite sure what to expect.

“Have you ever been up on six?” The woman’s hands fluttered nervously; she busied them with a sheaf of papers.

“Yes,” I responded, wondering where this was going. “My father was up on six a few months ago. He has cancer.” My voice tried not to choke on the word. The woman blinked at me, her hazel eyes widening. She gulped nervously before she seemed to find her voice.

“Have you noticed anything–unusual about your father?” Her words were whispered, I had to lean forward to hear her. I looked at her again, wondering what she was getting at.

“He has cancer, Mrs-“ I glanced at her nametag, “Conway. Of course something is unusual. A lot of somethings.” I turned to go again when I felt a hand grab my arm. I was alarmed by the strength in her grip and felt my pulse jump. I turned to her. Her eyes seemed wild now, and I noticed wisps of gray hair falling from the bun on top of her head.

“You don’t understand,” she hissed. “That’s not it. It’s not his cancer, it’s-“ she darted her eyes around, “it’s HIM.”

I wrested my arm away from her. “Thanks for the-uh-warning. I have to go now.” I jogged to the elevator and tried not to look back at the obviously demented woman. I’d mention her to Dr. Polanski. They shouldn’t keep people like that as volunteers. I couldn’t resist one more look at her before I stepped into the elevator, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at a portrait, a large painted one of the founder of our hospital, Daniel Morton, and I was slammed with a recollection.

I remembered visiting this place several times when I was small, first to visit a great aunt, then my grandparents, and not long ago, my mother. I was about five when my great aunt was ill with some sort of heart condition. They didn’t allow children up in the rooms, so my siblings and I were relegated to the waiting area in the lobby on the first floor. My small self wandered around, restless, when for some reason I stopped in front of that portrait. I was riveted by it, staring into the man’s painted-gray eyes until I felt immobilized by them. I got dizzy and felt my young heart speed up. I became so agitated gazing into the picture that I screamed long and loud. My older siblings grabbed me and pulled me away, and until now I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten that feeling of being sucked into something sinister, something that held onto me with frightening strength. Like the strength in Mrs Conway’s grip. I shivered as the elevator doors whisked shut and admonished myself to stop being so crazy.

I stepped onto the yellowed linoleum floor of six with trepidation, and again I admonished myself. I shouldn’t allow the mad ramblings of an obviously-demented woman make me so apprehensive. But as I walked down the hall, I noticed the muted lighting and wished for the bright lights of the floor below. I noticed the nurses’ station to my right and felt relief when I spotted a woman in white. She was sitting with her back to me, bent over a medical chart, presumably. She was wearing a nurses’ cap, I noticed as I came closer, and I was mildly surprised. I thought those little caps were a thing of the past. “Excuse me,” I called out, but the woman’s head was still bent. “Excuse me,” I called more loudly, and finally she raised her head and turned. She looked curious to me but I couldn’t quite place it; her makeup, though heavy, was done flawlessly, and her dark hair was quaffed perfectly underneath the cap. She blinked at me as if being awakened from sleep.

“Yes,” she asked in a husky voice, “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Dr. Polanski. Would you happen to know which room he might be visiting right now?”

The woman frowned, obviously perplexed. “That name doesn’t sound familiar to me. We have Dr. Walters and Dr. Benders, but I don’t recall a Dr.–Polanski, did you say? No, I don’t recall him. Let me check my records.” Instead of searching through the computer database as I expected her to, she turned to an old filing cabinet in the back shadows and pulled a wooden clipboard from the top. She studied it with the frown still creasing her powdery makeup. “No, no Polanski. I’m sorry I can’t help you. Perhaps if you’ll...”

Her voice trailed off as she stared down the hall. I whipped my own head around to see Dr. Polanski himself, thin brown hair shellacked to his head, walking towards me with a purposeful stride. I moved towards him. “Dr, I’m so glad to see you! This nurse,” I turned back towards the station, “kept insisting that you weren’t here.”

“Hmm,” the Dr. looked thin and tired; he rubbed his face. “I don’t know who that would be.” He peered into the station. I peered with him and was stunned to see nothing more than empty space. “B-But she was right here,” I stammered. I clamped my mouth shut, not wanting this physician to think I was losing control of my senses.

“Anyway Dr,” I turned back to him and hurriedly explained the reason for my evening visit. He nodded with understanding when I shared, with a quiver in my voice, that I was not going to be capable of continuing my father’s care without some medicinal help.

“This is a common occurrence in terminal situations,” he responded. “Why don’t you wait here. I’ll run to my office and get you a prescription for something that might help.”

I heaved with relief. “Thank you doctor.” He swivelled in the direction of his office, but I slowed him by calling his name. He turned. “This is going to sound strange, but do you think-“ I struggled to form the words, “Do you think that this sort of situation is any more prevalent here, in this hospital?”

A look of understanding passed his face. “You’ve been talking to Jean downstairs. Don’t worry about it, Deanna. The only thing bothering your father is his condition. I’ll get you fixed up,” and he was gone with a swish of a white lab coat.

Part of me felt foolish for having asked the question, but part of me wondered. I stood for a moment, drinking in the silence that seemed oppressive. I took a step forward and suddenly felt drawn to a darkened room to my left, a patient’s room that seemed unoccupied. Cautiously I pushed open the door and stepped inside. My pulse quickened when my eyesight adjusted and I was able to discern what was transpiring in this room.

The nurse I’d seen earlier was bending over a figure in the bed. It should have been a normal hospital scene, but for some reason it wasn’t. It was dark in the room except for a haze of light surrounding the bed. The man was wizened; his face was pale and his white hair stood out from his liver-spotted head like albino straw. She was holding a stainless steel cup up to his lips as he protested with taunts and snarls. She remained serene. “Now Mr Morton,” I heard her say, “You need to take your medicine and drink your fluids. Complaining won’t change that fact.”

“My own damned hospital,” I heard him bark with a snarl, “And I can’t even get respect. Be careful, you bitch!”

I backed out of the room as if scalded, seeing black spots before my eyes. It was impossible, I assured my brain. Impossible to have witnessed the scene I just had. My head was fuzzy, playing tricks on me-

“Here we are,” Dr. Polanski was in front of me with a smile and a prescription. He handed it to me. “Let me know if your father needs a refill, but hopefully this will be enough for him.” He patted my shoulder, a complacent smile on his face. “Now this is a pretty new sort of medicine, so be careful and watch him for any sign of an adverse reaction.”

I strangled out a “yes, Dr,” and began to trudge down the hall. I paused momentarily to shake my head of its spinning, and I happened to glance down at the prescription. “Um, Dr. Polanski, I thought you said you gave him a new medication. This is for Valium.”

“Yes,” I heard him respond, “There are high hopes for that drug. I hope it helps your father.” I turned to protest and froze, white heat suffusing my already-quaking body. The nurse in her cap was standing beside him, hands clasped in front of her, smiling a professional smile. “But who’s Dr. Polanski?” He tilted his head in askance. “I’m Dr. Benders.”