spelled: Oh, hi. Like a casual greeting. Oh, hi. Certainly not its beautiful Chumash Indian meaning: “valley of the moon.”
Two candy stripers stand behind the lectern.
“Ray Hawkes?” I repeat again. One candy striper picks up a plastic clipboard and flips through the pages.
“He’s in the ICU,” the other candy striper says. I breathe deeply and stare at the two girls, hoping they’ll figure out from
my silence—and the fact that I just
said
that—that they’re not really helping. I’m just asking for directions to the ICU. I stare. And wait. They stare back. I finally
have to give up and admit I can’t win this staring contest. They’re probably both thinking about the color yellow right now.
“And where might that be?” I ask.
“Fourth floor. Take the elevator, make a right, two quick lefts and then another right,” one of the candy stripers instructs.
I do the math in my head. Have they just told me to go on a wild-goose chase by directing me to walk in a perfect circle?
I catch myself doing some odd half-hokey-pokey-like movement as I try to work out the whole right, left, left, right thing.
I hitch my purse tightly on my shoulder and head for the elevator, repeating right, left, left, right… right, left, left, right…
As I walk toward the elevator, it finally dawns on me where I am. The chaos of the morning has slowed down and I find myself
here—zombielike in the lobby of St. Joseph’s Hospital in Ojai, California. What’s waiting for me at the other end of these
rights and lefts?
A harried blonde lady and a young boy stand next to the elevator. She’s rolling a child-sized piece of luggage behind her.
They both look at the elevator button, then at me, then back at the elevator button. It’s that awkward moment where you ask
yourself, has the other person actually pushed the call button—or are we all just standing here waiting for nothing? There’s
no light on the button indicating that it’s been pushed. Is she running through the possibilities? If she walks up and presses
it and the light is broken—then she’s insinuating that I’m the type of person who stands in front of elevators willing them
to open with my mind. The little boy jabs the button with a whirlwind of energy. He can’t help himself.
“Alec, I’m sure the lady—” The elevator door dings open. They seem startled and no longer make eye contact with me as they
step into the elevator. The woman holds her arm in front of the elevator door, holding it open for me.
“Oh, yeah—sorry. Sorry,” I say, stepping into the elevator.
“Which floor? Alec likes to push the buttons,” the woman says, eyeing my outstretched arm.
“Four, please. Thanks,” I say, bringing my arm back down to my side. The woman and boy step to the far side of the elevator.
Away from me. I’m relieved when I feel the buzz of my BlackBerry saying that I’ve got a message. It’s from Tim.
Good luck today. Call when you get a chance
.
The door dings open and they rush out. My stomach lurches as the elevator climbs.
Thanks. I’ll call when I get to the B&B
, I type. I booked a room at a little bed-and-breakfast I found on the Internet when I stopped by the office to pick up some
files.
The elevator dings open on the fourth floor. I hit send and pocket my BlackBerry.
I’m immediately hit with that unmistakable hospital smell. My entire body convulses. I can’t do this. I need a bathroom. Not
again, Jesus—not again. I’m unable to cry, but apparently I’ve now started vomiting like a kitten with a hairball every time
an emotional situation arises. Good to know.
I close and lock the door to the bathroom. Why are all hospital bathrooms so depressing? I’m forced to stop taking in my surroundings
so I can retch into the toilet. I try to keep my hands behind my back while holding my breath. My purse slides down my arm
and touches the floor—I’ll have to burn that later. I quickly grab
Two candy stripers stand behind the lectern.
“Ray Hawkes?” I repeat again. One candy striper picks up a plastic clipboard and flips through the pages.
“He’s in the ICU,” the other candy striper says. I breathe deeply and stare at the two girls, hoping they’ll figure out from
my silence—and the fact that I just
said
that—that they’re not really helping. I’m just asking for directions to the ICU. I stare. And wait. They stare back. I finally
have to give up and admit I can’t win this staring contest. They’re probably both thinking about the color yellow right now.
“And where might that be?” I ask.
“Fourth floor. Take the elevator, make a right, two quick lefts and then another right,” one of the candy stripers instructs.
I do the math in my head. Have they just told me to go on a wild-goose chase by directing me to walk in a perfect circle?
I catch myself doing some odd half-hokey-pokey-like movement as I try to work out the whole right, left, left, right thing.
I hitch my purse tightly on my shoulder and head for the elevator, repeating right, left, left, right… right, left, left, right…
As I walk toward the elevator, it finally dawns on me where I am. The chaos of the morning has slowed down and I find myself
here—zombielike in the lobby of St. Joseph’s Hospital in Ojai, California. What’s waiting for me at the other end of these
rights and lefts?
A harried blonde lady and a young boy stand next to the elevator. She’s rolling a child-sized piece of luggage behind her.
They both look at the elevator button, then at me, then back at the elevator button. It’s that awkward moment where you ask
yourself, has the other person actually pushed the call button—or are we all just standing here waiting for nothing? There’s
no light on the button indicating that it’s been pushed. Is she running through the possibilities? If she walks up and presses
it and the light is broken—then she’s insinuating that I’m the type of person who stands in front of elevators willing them
to open with my mind. The little boy jabs the button with a whirlwind of energy. He can’t help himself.
“Alec, I’m sure the lady—” The elevator door dings open. They seem startled and no longer make eye contact with me as they
step into the elevator. The woman holds her arm in front of the elevator door, holding it open for me.
“Oh, yeah—sorry. Sorry,” I say, stepping into the elevator.
“Which floor? Alec likes to push the buttons,” the woman says, eyeing my outstretched arm.
“Four, please. Thanks,” I say, bringing my arm back down to my side. The woman and boy step to the far side of the elevator.
Away from me. I’m relieved when I feel the buzz of my BlackBerry saying that I’ve got a message. It’s from Tim.
Good luck today. Call when you get a chance
.
The door dings open and they rush out. My stomach lurches as the elevator climbs.
Thanks. I’ll call when I get to the B&B
, I type. I booked a room at a little bed-and-breakfast I found on the Internet when I stopped by the office to pick up some
files.
The elevator dings open on the fourth floor. I hit send and pocket my BlackBerry.
I’m immediately hit with that unmistakable hospital smell. My entire body convulses. I can’t do this. I need a bathroom. Not
again, Jesus—not again. I’m unable to cry, but apparently I’ve now started vomiting like a kitten with a hairball every time
an emotional situation arises. Good to know.
I close and lock the door to the bathroom. Why are all hospital bathrooms so depressing? I’m forced to stop taking in my surroundings
so I can retch into the toilet. I try to keep my hands behind my back while holding my breath. My purse slides down my arm
and touches the floor—I’ll have to burn that later. I quickly grab
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