Admitted

This morning we learned that Richard’s father is in the hospital and has been for several days. His stepmother went to the ER today, too, and is being admitted, as soon as a bed comes open. They both have the flu, and his father has pneumonia and sepsis and a UTI on top of that. He was in the ICU for a couple of days before being moved to a regular room yesterday.

Richard and I went to check on them as soon as we heard. They both looked and sounded terrible, as you might imagine. They’d both been suffering high fevers and delirium. Richard’s dad seemed lonely and scared and sad, and didn’t have any of his personal items, even his glasses or phone. He wasn’t sure where his wife was. We weren’t either but we said we’d find her and report back. Richard’s stepmother was four floors down, lying in a nearly dark ER room, lit by just the glow of her bed buttons and a small TV. She was having trouble breathing as she described how she’d thought she was going to die last night. “I hope y’all don’t get this,” she said. “I really hope y’all don’t get this.” I stood still and willed myself not to breathe.

I remember visiting hospitals a lot as a kid. My grandparents — all of them — were in and out of hospitals fighting a litany of illnesses throughout my childhood. Through my hours in waiting rooms all over the Mid-South, I developed a sterile (so to speak) relationship with hospitals. I’ve never been weirded out by them. The people in the hospital are in the hospital and I’m not, even if I am inside the hospital. What could be more cut and dry?

There was a span of a couple of years (I think when my grandfather was battling emphysema) where I feel like we had the run of Jackson’s Regional Hospital. I got up to some mischief in the chapel there one time. Who was with me — my brother? My cousin? Can’t remember. Basically, we were exploring the hospital and accidentally got locked in the chapel. I couldn’t get the door open, so I launched into a serious prayer and begged God to help us get out. Lo and behold, the door opened. I was convinced it was divine intervention at the time. But now that I think about it, it was probably just a bored administrative staffer messing with us.

As a kid I thought there was something thrilling about being inside a hospital, especially a big one. People get the best and the worst news of their lives inside hospitals. It’s a 24/7 hub of unquestionably exciting, life-altering drama. The large hospitals were always more exciting to be in. They’re basically self-contained cities, with general stores, cafeterias, churches, laundromats, and all this unseen infrastructure that keeps everything working. So much to explore, so much emotionally raw energy pulsing through the place, pretty elevators, snack machines everywhere: It’s a (weird) kid’s dream.

Until today, I never experienced actual fear for myself inside a hospital. I could breeze in and out, untouched by the pain and suffering (thanks, amazing ability to compartmentalize!) and germs. Even when we had to get fully suited up to visit my sister, who was harboring extremely contagious bacteria, I never feared for my own health. Such fortune, so oblivious. But today I started thinking that every breath I took and every surface I touched could be the action that would lead the flu virus directly to my mucus membranes. I’m lucky to be healthy, but would it be a strain that my body would be unable to fight? Would I pick it up and carry it with me into the world and infect someone else, someone small and vulnerable?

Richard grabbed a couple of those crumply face masks for us. I put mine on and watched as my glasses fogged with every exhale. We lathered up with hand sanitizer every time we passed a dispenser. When we got home, Richard told me to take a shower and change my clothes. He worked in a hospital for several years; I trust his instincts on these things.

He’s going back to deliver glasses and phone chargers and other personal items that got left behind when the EMTs came. He’s a good man, doing what’s right and helpful, braving the unknowns to bring some comfort into a place where small comforts seem enormous.