Sketch Sixteen

The Hall

In the hall of Lutheran Hospital, the hall that connects the third floor of the Orthopedics Hospital to the regular part of the hospital are windows on each side--large windows that a car can go through, windows that start two feet from the floor and stop two feet from the ceiling, windows that aren't divided by much except about every three to five, where a piece of wall jets out. The windows are situated much like window seats without a cushions. In this hall are three offices and a small boutique center, which is no longer in business. The offices and the empty boutique divide up one side of the hall, making a center nook, the place where I sleep in the evening. This is how the three offices and the empty boutique are arranged: The empty boutique and one office is placed closes to the regular hospital, the office down the hall. Some 30 feet is left for chairs and tables, the nook I mentioned, before the next two offices appear. After those offices, another open space where the windowed-wall cuts into the doors that lead to the Orthopedics Hospital. The offices, upon inspection one day, when noticing a door open, has the very same large windows as the hallway. Here, in the nook, a pocket of sorts, is my bedroom by night. The chairs and couches in this part of the hall are different from those in the other cubby hole area and the waiting are for ICUe, except for the chairs used around the tables. (I must stop this observation briefly to tell you about one conversation I can hear, one of many that becomes part of this hallway: much grief finds its way to this hall. An older gentleman with a midlife women pass me to stand in front of the empty boutique. She begins to cry, he pats her back, in a hug I suspect, but I can hear the light patting; whispers and whimpers persist. There is much of this here; and still there is laughter as families meet, coming to know grief, often over an older person, not the young--the young are few here.)

Back to those windows; they intrigue me. The large windows allow vision to the construction of the main hospital, a fifth floor addition. Sometimes I imagine the crane not functioning correctly, the items upon its lift smashing through the hall. Here, it is quieter, even during the day, less traffic, even when the carts come barreling through with equipment and people walking to and from each hospital. The waiting room is always full, the elevator always busy.

As I attempt to finish this sketch, I am not in the hallway. I cannot honestly recall the wall colors. I can see the pattern in the chairs: the green and green blue colors. As vivid as I think the pattern is in my mind, as often as I have it, I'm without words to describe it because it is not in front of me. At a glance, from memory, a person can assume it is camouflage, which I say it is, but the pattern . . . I must see it, is not truly leaves and twigs--or is it. I've yet to determine if there is a genuine pattern with all the times I have stared at it. (Again grief can be heard as I sit alone in the hallway, sit on one of the couches that make up my makeshift bed late at night; a man talking to a brother, a sister, I do not know who, but someone who comes across as family by the way he speaks. His mother has been sent her from St. Joe. The situation is not good. She has been made more ill by the actions taken at St. Joe. His anger doesn't override his grief, but his voice speaks the pain of negligence, of lawsuit. The many different issues that bring us here.)

I have made time to write while in the hallway. My makeshift bed all tore down, I sit looking about me. The walls are a dirty cream, not quite a tan with a peach tint. Those chairs--let me get to them in a moment. The floor is carpeted: green mainly, a dark green, probably a hunter green with a cream and barn red in a splattered patterns highlighting the greens. This carpet comes in a darker type pattern as well, which creates a square outline in some areas of the hall--well this one is rectangle. Now for the chairs and couches: a person can witness leaves and twigs, but the lay out of the pattern is very deceptive because squares come in--some squares have tattered edges. There are a few vines with leaves at the tips, but don't stand out. The colors of this pattern also throws a person off: slate gray, off-dirty white, three to four tones of green with a blue hint in them. The couch pattern I've stared at mostly develops its own character, an entity, as if it shifts shapes, moves as if uncomfortable with its being: an eye within a jaw, the jaw jetting out sharply like that of a broken skull where the jaw protrudes. This same pattern repeats, but because of its position on this couch it stands alone.

There are two coffee tables in here; all the tables are alike among the three areas. The top is bordered by light colored wood, the same wood used for the legs (and beneath most likely). It feels like polished compressed wood. The top itself might be formica, a tan, brown mixture of colors in a splattered-marbled pattern.

Oh, those chairs have wood along the back and the cushions are divided by the same wood, making the couches look like individual seats, three side by side. The couches and chairs are wood framed benches of sort.

On one wall hangs a TV--LG; a light switch at the edge of this wall (this is the wall against the centered offices). Across from it, on the other wall, hangs a picture. Until now, I have not noticed it, I have not paid attention to it, nor looked at it.

I will not be finishing this sketch unless my son is placed back into ICU. He has moved to the regular part of the hospital, meaning he is better. There is much more to sketch.

Sketch Fifteen

Droid: What is a droid?
I am still figuring that out. It is a hand held device that connects you to family, friends, internet information, even your enemy (by mistake of user probably). At least I haven't been in contact with my enemy, but I can imagine this phone becoming a brain and doing just that to make my life even more miserable than it already is while learning all its gadgets hidden everywhere. There is a plug for FB, for Google, for gmail, for all mail, for ESPN, for . . . I don't even remember. Two days in to find the plug for settings. This tiny device sends me messages right from my FB. As nice as this is, a small fowl up has caused problems with replying from the mailing system to FB. Not useful as it is. How to find this bad connection is a question to be researched. Time is the important part of this device because time is how to know this device, unless of course a person decides to read the whole book, the thick book. Well, this black object that is rectangular with rounded edges and only one actual button-like device on top has a screen less the size of my palm and symbols to be touched for direction. Unlike a few of the droids, this droid slides open to a place full of buttons with letters and symbols. Aaaa, the joy of typing with the thumbs. Will I ever learn this new creation called a droid?

Sketch Fourteen

I have no clue what I exactly want to write. I think about doing character sketches, but find myself too tired to attempt thinking about these real people. The old lady wore me out. There is so much more about her, that I will probably add to the entry as time goes by. I keep thinking about the story I want to finish, but it requires time alone at night with me being able to sleep to noon the next day. Not going to happen. I guess a sketch about nothing is just as acceptable. My eyes keep wanting to close, and I won't let them. I feel the lethargy settling into my throat, where my chin is digging into my neck. Am I a crane that can tuck my head under my wing? Is that the bird? I nearly fell asleep standing up while riding the elevator up to the third floor. It doesn't take that long for the elevator to move, but it felt like an eternity. Ha ha, a sketch on sleep deprivation. No better sketch than that. Try it for a week. Still, I don't have a clue what a soldier goes through in the war zone. I don't think I want to. This war zone is enough for me, being deprived of sleep due to a son in ICU with tumors, all filled with cancer. My battle zone isn't about saving my life and a buddies, it is only about saving my son's. At least the buddy is there to watch over you as you watch over them. Okay, I went off topic a bit, but I think my point has been made, if there was a point in all this. Was this even a sketch, or was it a journal entry? I think it was a journal entry. My phone is beeping me: "I'm charged, unplug me!"

Sketch Twelve

This bed is unusual. It move with a press of a finger. The dull white does not shine, does not scream "come sleep in me." Wheels hold this bed up. The mattress fluctuates with weight, and people are told it is for comfort. I have sat on this bed; I find no comfort in this mattress that sinks when in an upright position. For a specialty bed, a person would assume that comfort would be the upmost importance. That is my problem, I assume. This bed, which moves with a press of a finger, has its difficulties, or I should say the administrator who attempts to use it. The symbols are not perfectly clear to what part of the bed shall move, or where certain latches are to allow access to the bed. This bed is like reading a binary code; only the maker understands it. Uncomfortably a person lies in this bed with sheet and blanket draped over the edges, with tubes and wires streaming to and from the person, hoping not to get caught in the action of the bed. This bed is not made for comfort, it is made to make the person "get better," for a person to "want" his or her own bed. Where is the healing in that?