I’m going to take a cue from my friend, Lauri, and write from a visual cue.
It isn’t a very exciting visual. It’s a brick wall. It’s the view from our hospital room
Within the wall are four windows.
I try not to look. They probably try not to look either. Hell, maybe they live for it? We cannot close our blinds due to the way the windows are made. We have no choice but to turn away or gape.
They, across the way, are similar people. I believe they are Floor Five, North. We are Central. North and South are where you go for a transplant. Over here, a code Blue is rare. Over there, not so much. We are going there.
It’s weird that they can see us, too. What are they thinking? How are they coping? They can see me now as I type this. We do not wave.
I know I will miss this room once we move next week. It’s “the Ritz” compared to the “Motel 6” we are going to. < That is a direct quote from Grimley, our BMT Specialist.
It looks lonely over there. I see bags of fluids swaying on a pole, just like ours. I see mothers and fathers and shadows. I see others looking out. What’s it like outside? That’s the thing: you can’t even tell if the sun is shining out there. It’s a WALL.
After three days looking at that wall it starts to feel like punishment. <Maybe it’s just me but I think there should be parents and family members and the kids who survive a lengthy hospital stay on the design team of a remodel. I know the kids would want some natural light. The designers of “The Ritz” where Ash currently resides were so clever that they installed a faux “sky” above his bed. You can turn the sunny, fluorescent sky on at 2am if you really want to. Big, puffy clouds. It’s a perfectly sunny day in here!
I have been assured that Ashton is coping better than I am even though I get to leave and even drive away every week and he remains.
I’m going to put some sunshine in a jar and release it directly in to this room and turn off that stupid pretend sky above the bed permanently.