I’m moving from my room into a hallway, with ceilings the color of ash, and walls that shine with a finish telling of their recent makeover. The nurses that wheel me around never speak to me outside of my room, perhaps because they've learned that I don't prefer conversation.
The wheels of my bed squeak occasionally, but not loud enough to block out the sounds all around. There are voices coming from the other rooms I pass, some quiet as though too aware that any ears close enough could easily listen in on their conversations, some loud and uncomfortable, making small talk as they have a thousand times, asking the same questions and getting the same quiet replies. I am all too aware that every voice rings with a certain desire to be anywhere but here.
Obligated visits or desperate ones, no one really enjoys coming here. The staff try to make the best of it for you, but they don’t enjoy being here either, so, how effective, though genuine, can that really be? They have their own lives, outside of these multicolored walls reflecting the inconsistent stream of fluorescent lighting.
I don’t like fluorescent lights. I am more aware of how many times they flicker, even though it is as fleeting as the movement of a moth’s wings, than I am of the lighting they provide. Truth be told, it’s a harsh lighting that wears on the eyes and over time makes everything look overexposed and almost unreal. I would count the milliseconds of darkness in that flickering if I could, but my eyes can only keep up enough to detect it.
I notice smells, too. Like the strong perfume that clouds room 2248 as the woman therein tries her hardest to be constantly prepared for company- but they rarely come. The smell of the fabric softener that some of the blankets are washed with, for those of us who spend so much time in bed.
There are plenty of things to notice, things you would never have thought about, when you spend day and night here.
Occasionally, like today, I leave my room, traveling down the halls, turning corner after corner, watching the patterns in the ceiling morph and make shapes as I pass. I have a destination, but I play a game of pretend so I don’t have to think about it. Today I am going to room number 3127 to visit Patrick Wilkins, the middle-aged man with a large sense of self importance. He loves to talk. He doesn’t know I listen to him, but he talks as though he thinks someone is interested, even though the staff try to avoid his stories.
I pretend I am going to visit him, to introduce myself and tell him that yes, I have been listening, and I do understand all your complaints, but no, there’s nothing we can do, and isn’t just lovely that the staff here take care of us, because what would we be without them? He would go on to say that he could do just fine on his own, and go into detail on how his life used to be before his teenage son brought him here. I don’t know if he has any children, or why he is here, but I make quite a game out of it.
If I allow myself, I can pretend enough that I detach from my surroundings, and it’s not the tests and treatments and updates on my condition waiting for me, it’s the stubborn woman just one room over who sings like the parrot that refuses to be quiet. She can’t hold a tune, but her vivacious spirit is beautiful enough. She sings through the staff asking her questions and taking her to the shower, she sings through the blood samples they take from her every other day even though the prick of the needle cause her breath to catch.
She sings like she is invincible, and I envy her. My breathing sometimes blocks out the sound of her high and shaky voice, and I would like nothing more than to hold my breath, never again inhale this recycled air, but I have to breathe again eventually. I never go outside, and these windows can’t be opened. There are doors, of course, but only into other rooms or elevators. The doors that lead outside are levels and levels beneath my room, but I don’t even visit the entirety of this floor, let alone the others.
My room is my home, and this building is the world around it. This is where I reside. I am preserved here. I am medicated, I am fed, I am bathed- I am checked on more than a beloved toddler by the overprotective parents. I do not have visitors, aside from the graveyard fill-ins that are assigned my room when I should be sleeping.
I listen and I watch and I sleep, and I wish more than anything for rest, but rest eludes me.
