Hospital

Wait, then wait, then wait some more. All while sending texts or messages out to keep people informed. You stick to messages and texts because talking makes it more real, and you have built this wall so you can be strong, and hearing someone else wavier, just may break down your wall.  

The reasons for people being in this building are vast. Some are here to work, some are here for minor issues, some are here to greet a new life, a new family member, while some are here to say goodbye.  

In the ICU the mood is much different. Real decisions are made here; real consequences are shared. You meet the eyes of strangers, you don’t speak, but there is communication “yeah, us too.” 

In the room, you sit, you look, you listen to the beeps, the staff and their separate language. While out of the room, they seem cold, busy, working. Then when they walk into the room, they greet you like an old friend, they talk to the person in the bed like they would anyone else, letting them know what is happening, what is going to happen. Then they turn to you and ask, “can I get you anything?”  

I say no, because of what I want, they can’t give me. They are already doing what they can, everything they can.  

Another round of updates, using terms like “no news is good news” or “stable” and “just a waiting game”, knowing these words hold little comfort or information. But that is the status.  

On one hand you hate to leave, like you will miss that one glimmer of hope or activity, or may miss that chance for a final goodbye, but life goes on outside these walls, and whether you admit it or not, you need to step away.  

The doors to the lobby of the ICU open and dozens of eyes look up at you, some with hope some in despair, thinking you may be the doctor or nurse with information, but you are just one of them.  

The elevator door closes, and a message has been placed on the doors. It makes you smile. “I needed that” you say to yourself.