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Just a little something I wrote while hanging around in hospital……
Everything seems to be in slow motion right now. The nurse in her light blue ensemble seems to glide across the floor in quiet elegance, bedpan in one hand, the deadly thermometer in the order, thankfully one that does go where the sun shines bright. I hear a muffled crash through the bandages that encase my mind, perhaps another poor soul falling victim to starvation. Hospital food has crippled many a poor sod’s recovery. In walks my doctor, smiling and asking how I’m feeling. I manage a faint, “fine”, adding “considering you just drilled a hole in my head” to my thoughts.
Hospitals are strange places. People arrive here knowing all is not well, some never leave, yet most staff have a constant smile on their faces here. I wonder what they really see when they look in each ward. Do they remember each life lost in each bed, or do they silently earmark the next to be rolled out the ward door, face covered with a sheet.
I laughed when I entered the prep. room before my anesthetic. The décor showed a half-hearted attempt at cheeriness. I think someone thought the room would appeal to everyone’s child within. I can’t imagine any other reason for Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck commandeering an entire room in a hospital exclusive to treatment of adults. It did, however, put me at my ease slightly. It caused my mind to wander for a few brief minutes. Mickey and Donald obviously served their purpose with me.
I think I dreamt when I was “asleep”. I remember a door saying “Do not enter”. My subconscious was telling me not to worry about my deepest fear of many weeks past. I woke up thinking I was helping myself through the trauma and felt that overwhelming sense of relief I had felt twice before, only this time it was stronger and seemed to grip me for a long time. I dozed that night rather than slept, thankful things had worked out exactly how I wanted it to. It’s not often that happens. Then a thunderbolt struck me. What if the outcome had not been this? I realized I’d know nothing of it, not being a spiritual person, and I’d be in a morgue in the basement right now.
Yet, oddly this thought didn’t bother me. I kept thinking, it wouldn’t matter to me, I’d be none the wiser. But my family and friends would be mourning, asking questions of what went wrong. It dawned on me. I’ve been missing the point of life. I had found my “meaning of life”. It was simple, and clear to see and understand. It is to appreciate the bunch of grapes my dad brought, to cherish the card my best friend signed and sealed with a “Get Well” sticker. It is to say thank you when the doctor calms my fears, and to give that gift of chocolates to the nurses who took my temperature at 3a.m. It is to remember and be thankful for the little things.
Everything seems to be in slow motion right now. The nurse in her light blue ensemble seems to glide across the floor in quiet elegance, bedpan in one hand, the deadly thermometer in the order, thankfully one that does go where the sun shines bright. I hear a muffled crash through the bandages that encase my mind, perhaps another poor soul falling victim to starvation. Hospital food has crippled many a poor sod’s recovery. In walks my doctor, smiling and asking how I’m feeling. I manage a faint, “fine”, adding “considering you just drilled a hole in my head” to my thoughts.
Hospitals are strange places. People arrive here knowing all is not well, some never leave, yet most staff have a constant smile on their faces here. I wonder what they really see when they look in each ward. Do they remember each life lost in each bed, or do they silently earmark the next to be rolled out the ward door, face covered with a sheet.
I laughed when I entered the prep. room before my anesthetic. The décor showed a half-hearted attempt at cheeriness. I think someone thought the room would appeal to everyone’s child within. I can’t imagine any other reason for Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck commandeering an entire room in a hospital exclusive to treatment of adults. It did, however, put me at my ease slightly. It caused my mind to wander for a few brief minutes. Mickey and Donald obviously served their purpose with me.
I think I dreamt when I was “asleep”. I remember a door saying “Do not enter”. My subconscious was telling me not to worry about my deepest fear of many weeks past. I woke up thinking I was helping myself through the trauma and felt that overwhelming sense of relief I had felt twice before, only this time it was stronger and seemed to grip me for a long time. I dozed that night rather than slept, thankful things had worked out exactly how I wanted it to. It’s not often that happens. Then a thunderbolt struck me. What if the outcome had not been this? I realized I’d know nothing of it, not being a spiritual person, and I’d be in a morgue in the basement right now.
Yet, oddly this thought didn’t bother me. I kept thinking, it wouldn’t matter to me, I’d be none the wiser. But my family and friends would be mourning, asking questions of what went wrong. It dawned on me. I’ve been missing the point of life. I had found my “meaning of life”. It was simple, and clear to see and understand. It is to appreciate the bunch of grapes my dad brought, to cherish the card my best friend signed and sealed with a “Get Well” sticker. It is to say thank you when the doctor calms my fears, and to give that gift of chocolates to the nurses who took my temperature at 3a.m. It is to remember and be thankful for the little things.
I have a theory that wisdom is seeing and listening. To see with a pure-eye; to listen with a pure-ear - in other words: to cloud not one's perceptions with preconception. It's so easy to ghost through life without ever truly seeing what IS; without ever truly hearing what is being said.
Seems alot of good stories are written on the forums. Credit to you all that write them!
Thanks @ng3l!
Brilliant, well written Lindgren
Just a little something I wrote while hanging around in hospital……
Everything seems to be in slow motion right now. The nurse in her light blue ensemble seems to glide across the floor in quiet elegance, bedpan in one hand, the deadly thermometer in the order, thankfully one that does go where the sun shines bright. I hear a muffled crash through the bandages that encase my mind, perhaps another poor soul falling victim to starvation. Hospital food has crippled many a poor sod’s recovery. In walks my doctor, smiling and asking how I’m feeling. I manage a faint, “fine”, adding “considering you just drilled a hole in my head” to my thoughts.
Hospitals are strange places. People arrive here knowing all is not well, some never leave, yet most staff have a constant smile on their faces here. I wonder what they really see when they look in each ward. Do they remember each life lost in each bed, or do they silently earmark the next to be rolled out the ward door, face covered with a sheet.
I laughed when I entered the prep. room before my anesthetic. The décor showed a half-hearted attempt at cheeriness. I think someone thought the room would appeal to everyone’s child within. I can’t imagine any other reason for Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck commandeering an entire room in a hospital exclusive to treatment of adults. It did, however, put me at my ease slightly. It caused my mind to wander for a few brief minutes. Mickey and Donald obviously served their purpose with me.
I think I dreamt when I was “asleep”. I remember a door saying “Do not enter”. My subconscious was telling me not to worry about my deepest fear of many weeks past. I woke up thinking I was helping myself through the trauma and felt that overwhelming sense of relief I had felt twice before, only this time it was stronger and seemed to grip me for a long time. I dozed that night rather than slept, thankful things had worked out exactly how I wanted it to. It’s not often that happens. Then a thunderbolt struck me. What if the outcome had not been this? I realized I’d know nothing of it, not being a spiritual person, and I’d be in a morgue in the basement right now.
Yet, oddly this thought didn’t bother me. I kept thinking, it wouldn’t matter to me, I’d be none the wiser. But my family and friends would be mourning, asking questions of what went wrong. It dawned on me. I’ve been missing the point of life. I had found my “meaning of life”. It was simple, and clear to see and understand. It is to appreciate the bunch of grapes my dad brought, to cherish the card my best friend signed and sealed with a “Get Well” sticker. It is to say thank you when the doctor calms my fears, and to give that gift of chocolates to the nurses who took my temperature at 3a.m. It is to remember and be thankful for the little things.
Everything seems to be in slow motion right now. The nurse in her light blue ensemble seems to glide across the floor in quiet elegance, bedpan in one hand, the deadly thermometer in the order, thankfully one that does go where the sun shines bright. I hear a muffled crash through the bandages that encase my mind, perhaps another poor soul falling victim to starvation. Hospital food has crippled many a poor sod’s recovery. In walks my doctor, smiling and asking how I’m feeling. I manage a faint, “fine”, adding “considering you just drilled a hole in my head” to my thoughts.
Hospitals are strange places. People arrive here knowing all is not well, some never leave, yet most staff have a constant smile on their faces here. I wonder what they really see when they look in each ward. Do they remember each life lost in each bed, or do they silently earmark the next to be rolled out the ward door, face covered with a sheet.
I laughed when I entered the prep. room before my anesthetic. The décor showed a half-hearted attempt at cheeriness. I think someone thought the room would appeal to everyone’s child within. I can’t imagine any other reason for Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck commandeering an entire room in a hospital exclusive to treatment of adults. It did, however, put me at my ease slightly. It caused my mind to wander for a few brief minutes. Mickey and Donald obviously served their purpose with me.
I think I dreamt when I was “asleep”. I remember a door saying “Do not enter”. My subconscious was telling me not to worry about my deepest fear of many weeks past. I woke up thinking I was helping myself through the trauma and felt that overwhelming sense of relief I had felt twice before, only this time it was stronger and seemed to grip me for a long time. I dozed that night rather than slept, thankful things had worked out exactly how I wanted it to. It’s not often that happens. Then a thunderbolt struck me. What if the outcome had not been this? I realized I’d know nothing of it, not being a spiritual person, and I’d be in a morgue in the basement right now.
Yet, oddly this thought didn’t bother me. I kept thinking, it wouldn’t matter to me, I’d be none the wiser. But my family and friends would be mourning, asking questions of what went wrong. It dawned on me. I’ve been missing the point of life. I had found my “meaning of life”. It was simple, and clear to see and understand. It is to appreciate the bunch of grapes my dad brought, to cherish the card my best friend signed and sealed with a “Get Well” sticker. It is to say thank you when the doctor calms my fears, and to give that gift of chocolates to the nurses who took my temperature at 3a.m. It is to remember and be thankful for the little things.