Waiting...

Thankfully, we have a private space this visit, set apart from the main Emergency Room, where patients' only privacy is a wrinkled fabric curtain. Tucked up to his chin for warmth with two thin, flannel sheets I found on a cart in the hallway, he relaxes. Elderly and frail, his cheeks are sunken, his parched lips are half open and his eyes are closed. His apnea-induced snorts direct my attention to the monitors: oxygen saturation 92% on room air; blood pressure quite low, but the intravenous fluids will take care of that. Mother has returned home to let the dog out, eat a snack and elevate her aching knee. Alone, keeping vigil and comforting his disoriented awakenings, I wait in this windowless room where time has no meaning, save the monitors' beeping and the fragments of rushed conversations in the hallway.

A young nurse steps in, asking if I would like to leave for a moment while she checks his more private parts. I've see them all, but take my leave, hoping to salvage a bit of his dignity. The day is quite warm outdoors, with a soft breeze ruffling the flowers who appreciatively nod their heads. In riotous summer bloom, the landscaping is beautiful: reds, pinks, blues, yellows and oranges all vying for attention among the greens of their foliage. Quite easily, I could...imagine...myself at an upscale eatery, a charming antique store or a local wine tasting venue, each with their flowers beckoning visitors to stop and stay a while. I notice a pollen- covered bee nestling in a red day lily, while a thirsty Swallowtail butterfly unfurls his tongue in the center of a bright Gerbera Daisy. Finches in the parking lot bicker over a carelessly discarded cookie, scattering in all directions as a car drives by. The world is throbbing with life, but I...am devoid of feeling, it's easier that way.

Turning away, my feet, resolutely, take me back to the little room. Aware of my return, he asks where I've been. Ever my dad, he hopes I've been to the cafeteria for a "good meal." I laugh as I tell him, "good meal and hospital cafeteria can rarely be used in the same sentence!" He smiles, relaxing back into the pillows while I smooth his sheets, tucking them up to his chin for warmth. In the windowless room, time ceases to matter. The monitors' beeping accompanies my thoughts, as I resume my perch on the stool, to watch...and wait. Heartwrenchingly old and frail, he lies there: sunken cheeks, mouth half open, parched lips, eyes closed. We are waiting...waiting together; together...waiting for answers.