behind the paper

ward rounds on Tuesday morning. we talk about discharge maybe Friday afternoon in time for the weekend a cool change my bone density scan. they say I’ve done well and ask how I feel about going home. it’s a funny question in that I don’t know how I'm meant to answer. the truth might make them wonder if I’m ready. to tell the truth may buy more time here prolong my freedom from the rules and expectations of the ward. what was scary at the start now seems so much less than what brought me here. out there I stand on my own and fill the fridge myself. out there expectation reigns excuses do little. out there appearance matters the narrative matters we laugh and look at ourselves in the reflections of each other’s eyes and every uncovered mirror. in here I sleep and wake to eat and do the same. I sit and listen to the other people and their stories with no real need to think about my own. there is no real need to think about anything. I am here to be fixed. how do I feel about going home? the truth hides behind the paper on the mirrors in my room the parasite’s new face the scream I don’t want to be seen. is this some kind of Stockholm syndrome? how can I be ready for myself again?

breakfast in another room

we take breakfast in another room away from all the noise. the nurses are concerned about the impact of the unpredictable ambience on our will to do our job and eat. barricade opens we follow the trolley past the nurse’s station down the hall into an office on the left a few doors down. a board room table cushioned black faux leather chairs projector screen and whiteboards. our places at the table are chosen by the nurses. they lay our trays at particular positions, removing each instrument vessel item of food napkin juice box to place before each consumer. trays returned to the trolley timer rightly assuming head of the table. toaster sitting nervous on a chair by the wall. we all seem a little thrown. a new room a closed door the unfamiliar lack of noise. plastic packet sounds and knives in single portion spreads much heavier in silence.

sitting across the table from a nurse we haven’t seen in a while I ask about her week. she has been well and even better now her daughter is on her way home escaping airport closures bombs escalating tensions on a flight out of Dubai. a little relief but still waiting for her son to do the same. I look down at my food my problems my self embarrassed by how I am despite what I know. what would the children in the rubble in the flames hiding under headlines think? I watch the nurse smiling as she waits for us to eat, not knowing when if how her son will come back home. I drink from a straw and remember a world outside much bigger than the ward myself any of our problems. 

birds

birds bathing in gutters on the roof. birds sitting on the table looking closer at my breakfast. birds fed by another consumer with his breakfast from the bench. birds coming and going enjoying their wings. birds breathing like me but a little more free.

on our phones

we visit the courtyard on our way to bed. the forecast says the moon is due to glow blood red and disappear into our shadow. looking up for the eclipse we see little beyond unwanted light between the walls of other wards. nothing worth a wish or staying outside any longer. we can't have the moon tonight. at least we can still watch it on our phones. 

whatever I think of the drink

fresh air today and rain. they say I can leave for an hour. I walk up over the hill across the road into a cafe recommended by the nurses. between new movement and colour I sit inside and I am just another patron, free to order coffee, sit and laugh a while. the coffee is too strong or my taste is too weak but this is much more about the play and the props than whatever I think of the drink. soon they'll have me back onstage to do this every day. I wasn't ready to stop when I surrendered. will I be ready to start when they call me back again?

tomorrow et al.

letting go to be where I am. I write to myself on the last day of summer. there are dreams I can't remember and mistakes I drag into every day like shadows. they monitor my vitals and all is well for now. as I'm told I do my best to listen to their voices more so than my own, to see that this is where I need to be, that whatever else can wait and doesn't matter quite as much. I read the news and think about the world beyond the ward and what it means to be where I am and letting go to do so. and so we sleep and dream through bombs birthday cakes massacres mardi gras white cliffs waiting rooms another string another season until tomorrow et al.

red voices

read away red voices

listen to tick of

starlight

tissue for consumer shakes

slipping blankets and

vitals

waiting in purple

think of other sounds and places

colours

outside soon