This morning I went to visit my friend, Kate, in the hospital. She’s been battling cancer for more than a decade, and is currently fighting an infection from a recent surgery. It felt something like a pilgrimage, going to see her. I suppose this is because witnessing another’s suffering feels holy, is holy. As is the suffering, itself. You’re taken out of time, somehow, and placed in another dimension. A hushed dimension of latex gloves and gowns, popsicle wrappers and empty coffee cups, drips and drains–the curious consolidation of life in a tiny room with a seismic purpose.
It was good to see her. It also gave me deja vu; I was recovering from surgery in a hospital bed not long ago, myself. I remembered how all of the smallest things presented a challenge–lifting a cup to drink carefully from a straw, the strain of simply moving, shifting, or adjusting my position in any way. My nurses would write “goals” on the dry erase board in my room that graduated from “pain management” to “going to the bathroom” to “walking.” Like I was being born all over again and rushing through toddlerhood in the space of a week. In my case, the comparison seemed especially apt because I was also re-learning how to consume liquids, then purees, then solid foods with my new (I won’t exactly say mangled, but yeah, mangled) tongue.
Kate means a lot to me because not only was she a wonderful colleague when we worked together, but she also played host to my daughter’s first Thanksgiving. My husband had to work that Thursday; I wasn’t ready to travel, solo, to see family with an eight-month-old; and most of my friends were out of town. I felt a bit stranded and lonely, and Kate graciously invited us over. I remember her ducking to check on the turkey while her husband danced around the kitchen with my daughter, singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love” in a surprisingly good baritone. In fact, I’ll never forget it. So a visit today seemed like the smallest possible return gesture for that lasting kindness.
Well, then 