Chronicle one - chronicles of the insane

I hate hospitals.

I’m sure quite a few people do… why would anyone in their right mind love hospitals? The smell of disinfectant, pristine white surroundings, sick people, conceited doctors, inefficient medicines... you get the picture.

And a sickeningly pristine white screen in the pristine visitors room.

It bugged the hell out of me. A plain white screen. How many exciting things can one do in a hospital? People like me come and go through that visitors’ room. Ninety out of a hundred would end up staring at the screen and wonder why a sickeningly white screen was sitting there. Its sole purpose seems to be to irritate the hell out of people waiting to hear if their loved one (or most hated nemesis) was dead or hanging by a thread or hale and hearty.

I wasn’t exactly waiting. I was just sick of being in my ‘loved one’s’ room. I realize it’s strange how many times I use the word ‘sick’ while sitting in a hospital with people far sicker than me but well. It’s just a word.

I walked out of the visitors’ room. The entrance. Now why would a visitors’ room be opposite the noisy, claustrophobic, phones-ringing-off-the-hook entrance of a hospital? As if the visitors didn’t have enough to worry about in a life or death situation. One more thing to think about if I have nothing else to do. I can hardly wait.

I could see the ramp clearly. Two wheel-chaired people were brought in, one who was a young boy who obviously did not want to be in the speedy, creaky transportation device. (well, what else can I call a wheelchair??) They brushed past me. The skinny mother spat on her hand and slicked her son’s hair back. Who cared what you look like in a hospital though?

I needed some air. ‘Loved one’ had many visitors. He didn’t need one more. I didn’t have to entertain him for now. I was liberated from the sickening building. For now.

It was dark, I couldn’t see much. As a result I couldn’t run from my relatives. I crashed into them head-on. “Bachchu, you look so tired!”, “How IS he?”, “Oh the poor boy, he must be in so much pain..” Yeah right. Who asked him not to wear a bloody helmet in the first place. But I bit my tongue, muttered formalities and fled for my life.

After the first few deep drags of what I call air, I began my descent back to earth from wherever I was earlier. I stood there smoking by the side of the dark road, next to a claustrophobic hospital, drinking a bad cup of refreshing coffee. I collected my wits and watched the electrical wires send off sparks high above my head. They reminded me of me in a strange way. Suspended far away from anything else, sending off temperamental sparks and watching the rest of the world. No, I’m not suspended above anybody else, levitating like some peaceful, enlightened sage. I’m just different, I suppose. Like the wires. If that makes any sense to you.

Standing by the side of the road with my coffee and my cigarette. You can see what a health-freak I was. Health-freak. Alarm bells went off in my head. I had to meet my daughter’s teachers the next day. The ‘council’ she called them; ‘Cold Ogres Under Nun Control Inside Loos’. Made absolutely no sense to me. Well, at least her vocabulary was expanding. I’d have to skip the meeting. I loved meeting them and rattling them though. A couple of sharp questions and casual remarks and they never knew what hit them. My daughter loved me more after these rattling sessions. She would rub noses with me and say what a cool parent I was.

I thought of the hospital again and shuddered. How I hated it. I would sit outside the visitors’ room these days, studiously avoiding the white screen and the relatives I could see walking up the ramp into the building. And later I would go and entertain my ‘loved one’. Which wasn’t too bad I guess. I suppose there was a reason why I had married him, helmet-less or not. It was quid pro quo. He drove without a helmet. I smoked.

As I blew the smoke through my lips I laughed. That was the only thing he liked about my smoking. He liked watching me. Watching me blow the smoke out through my lips. Said he loved my lips. Eccentric ‘loved one’. He had a thing about lips. They had to be perfect on a woman. Not too thick, not too blubbery. Maybe that’s the only reason he married me. For my lips.

I decided to be nice and thoughtful for a change and bought him a nice non-pristine-hospital meal. I don’t know what we saw in each other, it was like a character from a nursery rhyme marrying a character from a Sidney Sheldon. Or something. I thought I better bribe him with good food once in a while or he would get sick of me. Sicker than he already was, that is.

Puff, Puff. Chew, Chew. In between my meal, he called, strongly hinting that I should return to room 2017 and shoo the schmaltzy relatives out, feed him and entertain him. I ignored him, savoured my last smoke for the day, fed the mongrel by the side of the road, did my good deed for the day, successfully cheered myself up a bit and convinced myself that the hospital wasn’t so bad.

I would not see the white screen again, I promised myself. I exhaled and viewed the exterior of the sickening hospital suspiciously as I waited for ‘loved
one’s’ food to be packed. I made friends with another mongrel. Fascinating animals they were. We had adopted two so far thanks to me. I picked up the bag and began to trudge back to the hated hospital after flicking my cigarette to the ground.

I contemplated another smoke. I drew out another cigarette but he was waiting for me so in a brief spurt of affection I decided I would be the dutiful wife and trot back to my husband laden with goodies.

And then …. A van came out of nowhere. The bloody thing hit me before I could blink. And I saw a pristine, white screen again. If only I had waited and had another cigarette. If.