It is May, and two days away from my husband’s birthday.
We have had two quiet, introspective days (interrupted by a brief earth tremor this evening, and a couple of showers of gentle rain). We have much to think about and sort out in our heads. Physically, we are not in great shape but we are trying to work out the kinks, with the help of doctors and various machines.
We spent an entire evening at our nearby private hospital, on doctor’s orders. There is something surreal about emergency departments. People appear suddenly in various states of anxiety; one or two have to be whisked away to beds and drips. They all have their personal dramas; but for the bustling nurses and doctors, this is their work place, through which people come and go, wait, complain, sometimes cry, sometimes smile. Mostly, patients arrive in a small group of family or friends; rarely alone.
However, one woman in a red dress hurried in, calling in a wild but commanding voice: “I need a doctor right now! Help!” Although she did not appear injured in any way, she said she had “taken something she shouldn’t have.” She later emerged with several tubes attached, with a bruised look on her face.
He looked shockingly young - barely out of high school, I would say - but was very professional and took his time with us two poor old fogies.
After getting the scan results and everything else, we were ready to leave. At that point, a hush descended on the department. The waiting room was empty, and the television was talking to itself. The cleaning ladies took over with their mops and buckets. The young doctor was hoping to go home.
I am warding off the lingering anxieties with evening Netflix sessions: the thoroughly addictive Montana version of the Sopranos, “Yellowstone,” and “Ripley” - a noir story artfully directed in black and white. Mr. Ripley is talented! I know it doesn’t end well.
Glad you're both ok, and survived the evening shakes (in more ways than one🤗) Take good care!
Take care, Emma. I hope you're both going to be OK.