POST-OPS SIXTEEN
I sometimes laid there, in the hospital bed, and thought back to when I was a kid. This was not my first big hospital ordeal - you need to recall that, at age 8 I had an interaction with a locomotive that came out badly for me and likewise laid me up, for a m-u-c-h longer time around how much closer to violent death, or otherwise, I don't know, although people told me it was bad. I know it was a long time. Looking back somehow through 10-million acres of time (age 8 to age 73). I've written about all that, and I'm not going to do it again. In any case, through the fog of time, any number of things started coming back to me. That was 1958, and what I most remembered were the white, crepe-sole shoes, and the white uniforms and little hat-things that the endless array of matronly nurses wore. There was an assembled silence, and a crispness about it all that was missing now, 65 years later : certainly by age and disposition, the nurses were of an entirely different social strata. Which I kind of dug. I liked watching their ways and habits, and getting their gentle opinions and ideas about things. I did not know, of course, whether I presented to them any sort of a 'regular' run-of-the-mill patient, but it didn't seem so. They all came and went, unflinchingly, and were always interesting and pleasant, sort of trending towards their present subject matter and not much delving out. (Except, ss I've said, for the seasonal and present approaching 'Christmas' crap. Their 'uniforms' of 2022 presented an entirely different look. Draped differently, were not crisp, did not conceal body forms and shapes, and the 'shoes' seemed mostly to have fallen instead into some other comfort zone of floppier and 'looser-looking' sports shoes or sneakers. The military and the cleanliness look of starch and whiteness was all cancelled. Tattoos as well - not covered or avoided - sometimes covered good portions of an arm or a hand. I figured that to be a prevalent, societal, thing, and thought nothing of it. We grow numb to that stuff over time. The main thing was age : these were all nubile, young girls. The thoughts turned to sex only reluctantly, especially in my pitiful state, but I need to admit thy passed my mind. Favorites, and observations. Remember, from the old days, each carburetor (in men) gets jetted differently.
The few men in these jobs that I did see - and there were some - seemed by contrast to be perky and high-energy guys, who didn't mind talking a bit, rattled off things and ideas, told their stories and experiences easily and with little reticence. I wondered if that too was 'cultural' or in-grained by personality and job-selection. It little mattered; I began, in turn, to think: what sorts of cars did these guys drive? What sort of 'teens' had they been? What had marked them?
Once or twice I was wheeled away, for tests or for somesuch thing, and as I got pushed along through the halls, and one-time into some sort of waiting lounge where evidently nurses took lunch or waited, I overheard he chatters of conversation. These were NOT nurses, but nursing students, sitting there awaiting their doctor-teacher, from what I heard and saw, to arrive and take them away. They talked among themselves, went over lessons and readings, spoke of the doctor's ways and expectations, and/or fiddled on their phones or even cross-chattered with each other in that manner, exchanging videos and games. It was weird. A doctor did show up, one that I witnessed, and after greetings he whisked his 6 or 8 students (one male and the rest female) down the corridor. I guess it was a working-hospital session, by which to learn.
Out and along by the main front desk, these was always idle commotion; staff there, talking, laughter and some loudness, people asking directions and instructions, the round-door entryway, on automatic, swishing people in and out. There was a Peet's Coffee cafe thing there as well, with seating and open areas for study or reading. Weird thing was it closed at 2:30 pm. which I found odd. In the basement, below, there was a finer dining area / lunch counter / lounge, which I supposed took over that detail into night hours. There was also a pharmacy area, and a gift shop - flowers, teddy bears, cards, some books, etc.
In some respects - some - a hospital can be viewed as a well-oiled and soundly run factory or otherwise industrial site which needs to be run tightly, with perfect record-keeping and informational relay. It all has to make sense in those most preliminary manners; otherwise the mistakes and the rejects would just have to negated or cancelled out as production numbers - which is difficult to do in today's world of review boards, oversight committees, and statistical tables and records. It 'ain't like making widgets, and you can't throw away the mistakes.
This isn't complaining, you know. As I said, I rather grew to be fond of the place; finding security in a place of refuge. Perhaps it's a weak-personality thing with me, but it wasn't so bad. I found a hundred moments to savor and think about - nighttime, and daytime too. The day I finally did get whisked out of the place, that rear-seat car ride was pretty wondrous too : passing things I'd been thinking about, seeing street-people, interacting with lights and cars, the corners where the locals hung out, and the big downtown area, proud with all its signage and busyness. It's a tough thing to fathom, how we end up interacting with our scenes, even when they're not ours. For some three years I was used to woods and solitude, small roads and lakes and ponds, barns, horses, and cows. It took 20 minutes or more to get back to that format and scenery, but once I got there, I felt I was home again and a lot of this was instantly ingested and just put away. ....THE END
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