Writing this one from a darkened alcove on the eighth floor of Englewood Hospital - on a sad little Dell on a beaten up desk next to a matching bookcase that's only about 30% full.
The bulk of the day was spent down in the surgical waiting area on the second floor, next to an Hispanic businessman with two cell phones, both with loud ringers, neither of which he would answer, nor would he look to see who was calling, nor would he turn off the ringers (one sounded like the theme from a 1980's racing game), nor would he look away from the loud program he was watching on his laptop. Really, the guy was made of sounds, all of them loud and in competition. Strange behavior, which I'll guess is the norm in a waiting room.
I cut loose from the waiting area when my mother got out of surgery, but since they wouldn't let me in to Recovery, I went downstairs and had a business meeting in the cafeteria, easily the oddest place I've ever had a business meeting in my life.
Meeting over, and still unable to get into Recovery - this hospital plays a bit like an Infocom game written by Douglas Adams - I headed upstairs to her assigned room. The room has another occupant, however, who looked like she'd be a little discomfited by a strange man sitting in the corner, so I'm here, blogging to you instead, while I wait. Full circle.
The news seems to be good - my mother had two surgeries, and both surgeons came out after their 'turns' (what else would you call it?) and made very positive-sounding noises.
Looking down the hall, now, it seems like a nurse is doing clean-up in the half of 8440 that will belong to my mother for at least the next 24 hours, so I'll shortly be moving on to a new event in the waiting game - trying to keep myself occupied while my mother drifts in and out of the type of pixelated consciousness that four solid hours under anaesthesia produces.
D.
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