:: Hushed voices in hospital hallways ::
Last week, one of my close friends ended up in the hospital for what could have been a very serious issue, but thankfully turned out OK.
On Thursday, after work, I drove out to the hospital to visit her for a few hours. I realized as I pulled into the parking lot and found a space, that the last time I was in a hospital was when Brad had his accident and we all spent countless nights there, sitting, waiting, whispering - hoping for good news.
I'd forgotten what that was like. What it was like to be stuck in a place between good news and bad. Or, in many cases, in a place where the chance for good news had long since left the building.
It was mid-evening when I arrived. As I traipsed lazily through the hallways, trying to find my way to Ward 4D, I passed numerous other hospital visitors. I'd nod politely as I would walk past, or smile and say 'Hi,' if I happened to be sharing an elevator ride with someone. Just bein' polite, I thought.
But I forgot, I guess, where I was. A place where people come to softly whisper goodbyes to dying loved ones, or where people pace the halls, worried sick that their brother or sister or mother or father comes out of surgery still breathing.
Or the place where people huddle, quietly playing cards while keeping their darkest thoughts to themselves, waiting for a friend to wake up.
I got very little response from my pleasantries. At most, I'd be returned a nod of one eyebrow, followed by eyes fixed on the floor. At worst, I'd get daggers stared back at me, or a back turned.
But always, there was silence. I couldn't blame them.
Some people, I soon remembered, are in no mood for my good tidings.
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