Paralysis

We drive across the St. Joseph River. The bridge seems like sanity, the river below madness. Not violent or thrashing waves, but deep, cold, life-sucking drops of water. The bridge is sane and safe. We pass a small park, there is a statue made of mirrors there—shards of glass driven at odd angles into the ground—so that as we pass our images are shredded. All cars that pass it are ravaged and torn, left in shreds.

Outside the tightly woven layers of plastic, metal and glass that surround me the world seems grumpy. Snowflakes ride the wind, abandoning grace for sheer speed, slamming into everything and anything at all…but the angry wind is worse. Air velocity ventriloquism… on all sides. Past the buildings on main street, huddled inside themselves against the harsh, sneering wind. A pedestrian jerks head left and right, their red scarf yearning to yank free, their huge violet coat enveloping. I can see the scarf about to escape and leap into the air in my mind… the person wraps it around their head again.

March… why are the streets full of slush? Why can't you be June, the first month of my year? Then the sun would be everywhere and on everything… clingy, maybe, but not so restless! Settle down, March!

Now we drive towards the hospital, and accidentally almost pull into a lane where two emergency vehicles sit, red lights flashing. We make it out of there, pride pieced together as other cars glance at us in passing, and find a slot in the actual parking lot. It's far from the doors, which are up a hill. The wind seems to double its efforts against us, sending snowflakes into my face and tearing through the cloth of my coat to bit against my skin, gnawing at my fingers, squirming into my sneakers. It's a long walk. We enter through the automatic doors and the wind seems to howl in anger… we got away!

But now we are in the hospital…

I am amazed at the ease with which we make our way through white corridors. You wouldn't expect any other color than white, though there are occasional touches of color, soft and almost… dying. Fading into the white with the slightest comment, the mark of a life recorded upon the wall. There are no security guards to eye you as you pass, or sets of security scanners--there is nothing.

The elevator jolts slightly, there are dents and scrapes on the door. I think of a struggle, of a battle between rolling metal beds and the door inching shut. I wonder.

My mom says, "Remember how we got here…" after we walk through seemingly endless hallways.

We enter the hallway marked "Intensive Care."

I began to feel uneasy. Pass rooms with old, sad, hurt… people lay, sometimes listless, sometimes gazing at us. My body tells me to run. I think about that, I wonder why I want to run. Run away from death? Why? It is inevitable.

Then we enter his room.

Now I would really like to run. He's tucked very carefully into the bed. His feet stick out the end of the blanket--they are tiny, wrinkly, see-through… the fragile feet of a small child.

His rib cage is well outlined, thin. His face is covered by a tubes which run into his mouth. There are monitors everywhere. I am frozen, paralyzed just inside the open door.

He has ammonia. He cannot breathe without a machine.


I am frozen still.