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Hospital People Watching

8 years ago1,702 words

I'm still in the brain hospital. I've talked to more human beings in the couple of days I've been in here than I have the whole rest of the year, probably. It's really interesting how in falling apart, people come together to support those they might not otherwise...

The Chuck Norris guy I mentioned in the last post had a seizure right in front of me. It was horrifying... But the concern everyone felt about him was so moving.

He came in around the same time as me, and seemed really calm, cool, relaxed. He's the sort of person I'd never normally talk to - huge muscles, covered in tattoos, sporty, sort of the opposite to me at least superficially - but we talked briefly from across the room, showing concern about how each of us were doing. He talked about how he'd found out about his own brain tumour from randomly having a seizure one day, which led to surgery, but then after that the doctors just monitored the slow growth of his tumour over several years, without operating, as he had no symptoms at all. It was really inspiring, gave me hope... He talked about how important it was to be optimistic about it all.

This morning, head covered in bandages and scars, he was up and about before long, lounging around making easy, fluid small talk with the nurses about the TV shows he was watching. Seemed completely fine; I was amazed that someone could have such an extreme operation (a craniotomy to debulk a frontal tumour... apparently) and seem so fine so soon afterwards. Again, inspiring.

His girlfriend came in to visit him, asking casually and calmly if he was okay as if there was no reason to be concerned. She approached him, and I didn't want to stare so I looked at my phone or closed my eyes or something... But then suddenly it sounded like he'd started sobbing or moaning or screaming. A loud "MMMMMM!!!" as he grabbed his head and his body contorted as if in pain. Hands on her mouth in shock, his girlfriend backed away and fled the room to get help, while I was just lying there in my bed watching as he convulsed and fell to the floor, knocking over a table, banging his damaged head on the floor. This soft-spoken manly man - like a burly sailor - shuddering on the ground and scream-moaning like someone mentally retarded. "MMMMMMM!! MMMMMMM!!" Sounds of mouth foaming, bestial slavering. So different to who he was mere moments ago. It's one thing to see a body break before you... But to see a mind so transformed, well... It just made me so aware of how fragile all we mentally are is; stir up this blob of jelly just a bit, and calm confidence turns to tragic aberration in moments.

Medical staff swarmed into the room, loads of them, sticking their instruments into him, firmly saying his name (but he wasn't there), closing the curtains around the other beds to spare the rest of us the sight. Lots of chaos, sound of machines, panic, just metres away from me. Terrifying.

And yet while tending to him the staff talked amongst each other with such seemingly-inappropriate levity! One complained about having to basically spoon in a crowded ambulance with an overweight, smelly medic who asked her out on a date. A couple of them flirted with each other. The "MMMMMM!!" sounds, the shuffling on the floor, the beeping of the instruments, continued behind it all.

The staff seem to always do this, talk to one another about their personal lives over the top of the patients' heads. I wonder which would be more unsettlingly dehumanising; them talking about their love lives and holidays while pushing you around in a chair, as if you aren't there, or them being devoid of humanity themselves, coldly Professional. Hmm.

It's as if there are two species of staff: the spindly, pasty, nerdy-looking, intensely intelligent doctors, neurosurgeons and the like, who lurk around with clipboards, sombrely serious, few in number, important like generals or royalty... They remind me a bit of preying mantises.
And the 'common', worker-type nurses and dogsbodies, most of whom have ∞ Scouse accents ∞ (which I really dislike) and seem mentally lesser but socially more casual. Most have deep tans and many tattoos; the sorts I can easily picture partying in Ibiza in big noisy crowds. They're mostly overweight or stocky and remind me a bit of plump pink pigs.
There's such a sharp contrast between the two... I just wonder whether it's something I observe because of who I am - categorising as I do - or whether it's as obvious to everyone else too. I wonder whether the mantises look down on the pigs.

And yet it seems the doctors are like distant mechanics, puzzle-solvers, gods-on-high, who tweak brains until they're 'fixed' and then wave in the next technical challenge... while the more human nurses care with their hearts, about people rather than patients. My neurosurgeon (or rather his similarish but younger and more awkward minion; I haven't seen the man himself since just before the surgery) said I could go home today because they've finished doing tests on me... while a friendly, motherly nurse - after he'd left - told me I'm not well enough to leave yet and can stay another day if I want. To him, the work was over; to her, I still needed care. I've decided to stay another day, since I still feel very ugly inside.

I feel I developed a connection with the muscular guy (to the point where I'd both rather use his actual name but would also prefer to refrain from doing so out of respect), and cared deeply when he was taken away. I've asked a few times if he's okay. His girlfriend came and talked to me immediately after his seizure, asking if I was okay; we shared our sense of shock and I said some supportive words. I know things like this are just a part of being human, caring for others in need... But I see so much malice in the world that I always feel touched when this compassion arises instead. I hope they're both okay. I was told he'd recovered well enough, though I don't think he'll be returning to his bed.

The zombie-moaning man who's also in a bed in front of me has been concerning me too. His parents came in earlier (he's middle aged; they were old and grey), and the mother at least was so doting, attentive, loving... Kissing his forehead, calling him a lovely dear and saying his soft and gentle he is. But I think he's permanently impaired; requires constant care, a mobile chair. I wonder how well she knows her son is little more than a vegetable... I wonder how much that even matters. Does love transcend the mundane babbling of minds? I do feel sorry for them though, having to spend so much of their lives caring for someone who can't really give anything back. People talk to him as if he can understand - a nurse is doing it right now - and he just lies there and grins or snorts... I wonder what it's like inside that head. Whether they say the things they do for him, genuinely believing that he understands, or because pretending is more comforting than facing the idea that they themselves could ever lose so much of what they are while still clinging to life.

Loads of people have complimented my name, oddly enough! I suppose it's just part of the small talk - that filling of silence with inane observations and questions - but it's happened enough times to be notable. Makes me feel prouder to be called what I am.

A woman came in to take my blood at one point and started talking about living in the moment, spirituality, depression, being sensitive; things that I think and write about myself. She was one of the 'pigs' in demeanour and ranking, and I noticed my mind feeling irritated about how someone so apparently unlike me could embrace the things that I do; there was the assumption that she must do so in some kind of lesser, foolish way. Silly how this mind of mine can be.

She was the sort who talks at rather than with, though, and I sensed (or perhaps imagined, projecting my own judgments) that the other staff saw her as odd or annoying when she talked to them about often seeing people have seizures and such.
She seemed pleased that she'd apparently found a kindred spirit in me (and I appreciated hearing my own thoughts voiced by another too), and gave me an awkward hug as I lay in bed.

Anyway. This whole stay has been a fascinating - if harrowing - experience all around. I'm so naive and sheltered that it's always interesting to have the chance to observe. I keep trying to come across as intelligent and aware, not in a pretend way but because I hope I actually am, to seem like a mantis, though I do stumble over my words a lot, as I always have. My head hurts, and I have some visual disturbances still - perhaps some strange thoughts or oh-so-subtly distorted mundane memories too? - but overall I still feel like me and my burrowed-into brain seems functional enough. A relief. I'll have to wait ten days to find out whether the tumour in my head will ruin my life sooner rather than later, though... I sort of don't want to know. I'll just have to hope for some good news for once.

Though it isn't like I'm not trying to see all this from a sort of bright angle. Maybe not all joy and happiness, but it's an experience of interest, and seeing it as such makes it something to enjoy rather than wanting it to be over. I feel like I'm connecting more with other humans here, that people have noticed some things of value in me outside the Internet, and it's a nice, unfamiliar feeling.