Last weekend, I spent much of my time in the hospital, not as a patient, but a visitor. Bestie and Bestie Jr.'s mom had to spend several days in isolation due to low white blood cell count, so the three of us (and assorted husbands) kind of made a squatter camp in her room.
I don't like hospitals, not because I have bad memories there, though one would think I should. I don't like them because they are cold and sterile (I suppose they should be, but still...) and reek of urine and other bodily excretions. Also they make my hands smell like medicine.
Despite this dislike, I found that the three of us had a very interesting, even unique attitude about our time at the hospital. We didn't spend our time there speaking in hushed tones, gingerly making a little home out of the room and walking on eggshells. We didn't wring our hands or pace about the floor. No, we laughed and took pictures. It wasn't until the second day of this that I realized perhaps our behavior was not normal hospital behavior. When most people are visiting their loved one in isolation, they are struck with a bad case of the nerves and seem to be on the brink of tears. Yet in spite of our concern and care, we were howling with laughter, making fun of each other, and enjoying thoroughly the fact that we all were required to wear surgical masks.
As I pondered this, I realized that this behavior must be directly linked to our childhoods. Sadly, we both had parents who spent a large chunk of their lives in the hospital as we grew up. We learned at an early age to go about normal life, only sometimes in a hospital instead of a house. I still remember going to visit my dad one summer after he had been in the hospital for what might have been weeks. We played in the waiting room as if nothing was wrong.
And then there was the birthday that was spent with Dad in the hospital. Dad had given the nurse some money and she went out and bought me something "from Dad." It was a necklace and bracelet set, made of little pastel- colored stars. I loved it. I opened all my gifts there, sitting on Dad's hospital bed. The thought that something was wrong or weird never even entered my mind.
The familiarity with hospitals had desensitized us to their sobriety. So when we popped those surgical masks over our faces, our first instinct was not to tear up because of the circumstance, but rather to take pictures, lots of them. And where some might speak in hushed tones around the bed, comforting the patient, we laughed about everything and probably made a few jokes at the patient's expense.
Why do I write about this? Really, I don't know, except to give you further evidence that my group of friends are not normal... but I love them. :)
Because that's what we do.
PS: the black box is protecting "he-who-put-up-a-stink-about-being-on-a-blog." LAME.
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