Today was extremely emotionally challenging for me. We went to Hospital 8, which is the hospital for elderly people who are homeless. I tried to prepare myself mentally (we had gone there last year,) but I still wasn't ready to go back in. As we pulled in to the tight driveway, I started to shake. I was crying by the time we got out of the van.
When we got past the awful staircase that patients are bounced up when they're brought in, I locked up. It was so hard for me to consider going back, and once we got into the rooms, I had to force myself to smile - those people don't need any more tears.
Karen helped me out, though - getting involved takes my mind off all of it. Karen had me spoon feed a guy who couldn't si tup, who could barely support himself to lean up on his arm. It really did help me to help someone else. When he (Nickoli was his name,) was done, he just held my hand and stared at me and smiled at me. He spoke very little English, and my Russian barely gets me through "What is your name?" For a while, we just talked to each other in our own language, had a conversation that I'll never know the literal translation to, but could see the meaning to it in his eyes. I left his room and couldn't stop crying.
The lead paint is still peeling. There's still too many people to a room. The food looked atrocious. The bandages were less than fresh. That place isn't a hospital - it's a slow torture chamber, and I left people in there. Again.
That has to be the worst part - walking away. I didn't recognize anyone in there, which means ,more than likely, the people we saw last year have passed away. The chances of anybody recovering in that situation are slim. I have to wonder how many people do walk out of there - but then I stop, because I'm afraid of the true statistics.
I feel bad for not taking more pictures (I took 2 and then had to stop,) and for not making more powerful connections, like I did with Nickoli. I just couldn't make myself move. I just stood in the hallway and absorbed everything - the woman who said "Don't waste a Bible on me - I'm nearly blind, close to dying, and I'm a Christian. Give that Bible to someone who needs it;" the 33-year-old woman who is stuck in the hospital; the woman curled up in the fetal position, unmoving, apathetic, basically ready to go; Nickoli, barely strong enough to prop himself up on his arm; the 56-year-old war vet who is nearly completely healthy except for his missing limbs.
Images like that are engraved in my mind, forever.
No comments:
Post a Comment