My new job finds me working in a hospital. I'm a runner, which means I do a little bit of everything, shlepping furniture in and out of rooms, doing bed counts, hauling stuff hither and yon. I've only worked there two days, and I've already been all over the place, on every floor, in every room. Even that room.
Two years ago, Mom embarked on her grand tour of Des Moines hospitals. She spent time in all but one, including Mercy, where I now work. So I've done set-ups in the room in which she stayed, one of the rooms in which they were suposed to figure out what was wrong, to cure her and send her home.
She didn't die during her stay at Mercy--in fact she had many good months ahead of her, but it was the beginning of the end. The tiny, cramped room, the spacious, sun-flooded hallways, the elevators functioning with quiet, almost ruthless efficiency--these are all reminders of a time I'd prefer to forget. And I see them every day.
So I shake it off, and try to ignore it. Mostly it's easy; I have plenty to do and very little time for sentimental reflection. Still, it can bust out anytime, when passing a waiting room full of silent, glassy-eyed family members, or when catching a glimpse of a doctor looming over a patient's bed like a white-coated angel of death, speaking quietly, while the patient's face crumples into numbness.
These are the times I miss Mom, but my sadness comingles with theirs, a universal loss, a sense of humanity enriching us all.
