sometimes, the last thing you want comes in first..
..and sometimes, the first thing you want never comes.
There are areas of a hospital that are almost comforting. The cry of a newborn. Tears of jubilation. Knowing everything is going to be okay. Knowing that tomorrow will be a better day. Then, there are areas of a hospital that reek of sorrow. While walking around, you can feel Death's boney fingers grabbing at you. Today I visited my grandmother at the hospital, and unfortunately, I visited the latter.
Kindred Hospital, despite it's warm name, was located in a shady area in Santa Ana. Earlier, my brother and I had stopped by Vons where we bought flowers, a card, and Get Well Soon balloons for my grandmother, and as we walked into the hospital, the attendant greeted us jokingly with a, "Wow! Are those for me? You shouldn't have!" The sitting area was decorated very clean. Not cold, but not friendly. As we proceeded to the hospital rooms, we ran into another worker who oddly made the same joke verbatim as the attendant. For a second, I almost forgot where I was. But as soon as we pushed through the swinging doors into the separate rooms, I remembered. I could hear coughing and moaning, and I remembered. Kindred Hospital is where people go to die. When a regular hospital has done all they can do, they move you to Kindred Hospital where strangers care for you when you can no longer care for yourself until you eventually stop breathing.
Nurses crowded the hallways, walking in and out of rooms, cleaning out bedpans. My grandma's room is B2. My dad told us that they already moved everything out of my grandparents' home. My grandpa has moved in with an uncle. This home is now empty. This home that's so full of memories. At one point, my entire family lived in one room, my cousin's family lived in another room, and my grandparents occupied the third room. This was when I was still a baby and my parents couldn't afford a home, yet. I remember my brother telling me that he walked into my cousin's room once and found him in the room with his mother who made him pee in a bowl because someone was in the bathroom, but this was when we were wee little children. Right when they moved from Vietnam, this was the home they lived in. I think it's been there for a little more than 25 years? I don't know. But it's weird. Ever since I can remember, we'd have family parties there every Saturday. I eventually got bored of them. Soon, my grandma was too old to make food for everyone and we started having family parties at one of my uncles' homes. After my parents' divorce, I stopped going to the parties and began to really miss them. Then, once my stepmom and stepsister passed away, my dad stopped going to them. It's just weird to think about what has happened. I'm only sixteen.
Anyways, my grandmother shares her room with another fraile old woman. When I walked over to my grandmother's bed, it made me so sad to see her. She used to be a rather stout lady. I saw her curled up on the bed almost like a fetus. Her legs were so thin; thinner than my arms. She had a diaper on and the back of her gown was exposed as she lay on her side, staring at the closed curtains, hugging a pillow. She was so small. She looked like a lost child.
We put the flowers into a vase and set it on the nightstand next to her and she read the card.
There was a yellow laminated sign taped to the bathroom door:
How much pain are you in?
There was a range of different smiley face expressions from happy to excruciating agony with a numbered scale under each expression. Under the scale was a list of types of pain.
Describe your pain.
Aching. Burning. Sore. Stinging. Stabbing.
The list went on and on. About 6 columns of descriptive words.
After she read the card, she set it on the nightstand and talked to us. My dad tried to make light of the situation, and joked about winning the lottery, and I could see my brother's eyes water. He shifted towards the wall so my grandmother couldn't see, pulled a tissue out and dabbed at his eyes. While my grandmother and dad talked, the old woman laying in the bed on the other side of the curtain began to whine. I couldn't really understand what she was saying, but it sounded like, "I'm hungry." Soon, the callings got louder and she started whining, "Why?" As we said our goodbyes and left the room, I could still hear the woman ask, "Why?" I'm sorry. I don't know why.
There are areas of a hospital that are almost comforting. The cry of a newborn. Tears of jubilation. Knowing everything is going to be okay. Knowing that tomorrow will be a better day. Then, there are areas of a hospital that reek of sorrow. While walking around, you can feel Death's boney fingers grabbing at you. Today I visited my grandmother at the hospital, and unfortunately, I visited the latter.
Kindred Hospital, despite it's warm name, was located in a shady area in Santa Ana. Earlier, my brother and I had stopped by Vons where we bought flowers, a card, and Get Well Soon balloons for my grandmother, and as we walked into the hospital, the attendant greeted us jokingly with a, "Wow! Are those for me? You shouldn't have!" The sitting area was decorated very clean. Not cold, but not friendly. As we proceeded to the hospital rooms, we ran into another worker who oddly made the same joke verbatim as the attendant. For a second, I almost forgot where I was. But as soon as we pushed through the swinging doors into the separate rooms, I remembered. I could hear coughing and moaning, and I remembered. Kindred Hospital is where people go to die. When a regular hospital has done all they can do, they move you to Kindred Hospital where strangers care for you when you can no longer care for yourself until you eventually stop breathing.
Nurses crowded the hallways, walking in and out of rooms, cleaning out bedpans. My grandma's room is B2. My dad told us that they already moved everything out of my grandparents' home. My grandpa has moved in with an uncle. This home is now empty. This home that's so full of memories. At one point, my entire family lived in one room, my cousin's family lived in another room, and my grandparents occupied the third room. This was when I was still a baby and my parents couldn't afford a home, yet. I remember my brother telling me that he walked into my cousin's room once and found him in the room with his mother who made him pee in a bowl because someone was in the bathroom, but this was when we were wee little children. Right when they moved from Vietnam, this was the home they lived in. I think it's been there for a little more than 25 years? I don't know. But it's weird. Ever since I can remember, we'd have family parties there every Saturday. I eventually got bored of them. Soon, my grandma was too old to make food for everyone and we started having family parties at one of my uncles' homes. After my parents' divorce, I stopped going to the parties and began to really miss them. Then, once my stepmom and stepsister passed away, my dad stopped going to them. It's just weird to think about what has happened. I'm only sixteen.
Anyways, my grandmother shares her room with another fraile old woman. When I walked over to my grandmother's bed, it made me so sad to see her. She used to be a rather stout lady. I saw her curled up on the bed almost like a fetus. Her legs were so thin; thinner than my arms. She had a diaper on and the back of her gown was exposed as she lay on her side, staring at the closed curtains, hugging a pillow. She was so small. She looked like a lost child.
We put the flowers into a vase and set it on the nightstand next to her and she read the card.
There was a yellow laminated sign taped to the bathroom door:
How much pain are you in?
There was a range of different smiley face expressions from happy to excruciating agony with a numbered scale under each expression. Under the scale was a list of types of pain.
Describe your pain.
Aching. Burning. Sore. Stinging. Stabbing.
The list went on and on. About 6 columns of descriptive words.
After she read the card, she set it on the nightstand and talked to us. My dad tried to make light of the situation, and joked about winning the lottery, and I could see my brother's eyes water. He shifted towards the wall so my grandmother couldn't see, pulled a tissue out and dabbed at his eyes. While my grandmother and dad talked, the old woman laying in the bed on the other side of the curtain began to whine. I couldn't really understand what she was saying, but it sounded like, "I'm hungry." Soon, the callings got louder and she started whining, "Why?" As we said our goodbyes and left the room, I could still hear the woman ask, "Why?" I'm sorry. I don't know why.