Went to visit a friend of ours in the hospital the other day. He had his appendix removed, if you can believe that. What the heck is the deal with the appendix anyway? I’ve had a couple of deep, theological discussions recently on the nature of the appendix in the last few days.

We haven’t come up with much on that.

Okay, I’m going to try something new and actually try to get to the point early this time. Let’s see how that works out. I suspect I won’t be satisfied with the results but every new approach to art yields it’s own refrigerator magnet-worthiness, I suppose.

“Isn’t it lovely? My little girl’s quite the artist.”
“Is that a banana?”
“No, no. That’s the moon, you see.”
“Ah. Okay.”

A refridgerator door display is a must for every budding new artist.

No, really.

So. We arrived, my guy and I. We exited the vehicle, made sure we had all our supplies handy (I hate going all the way back to the parking lot for that handkerchief or that ink pen), approached the formidable bastion and bravely pierced the veil. Within we found that antiseptic world of The Hospital. A realm upon which I dread to tread.

Up, up and up to the hallowed fourth floor, wherein the mysterious denizens, wise and learned beyond all kin, had secreted him away that they may practice their white magic without the distraction of the unwashed peasantry smelling up the place.

Humbling, that they would deign to allow our visit and a glimpse, even in passing, of their secret arts. I was, of course, google-eyed and curious. Never to let this show. Oh no, not this unwashed peasant.

Eventually, quietly and meekly, we came to The Door. Beyond which we would find our beloved friend and see first hand what had become of him in the strange place.

And I dithered.

I love the word “dither”. “Dither” is a word I just love. It so very accurately captures that mental image of stopping suddenly in indecision, twitching a bit and waggling your arms slightly back and forth with your head ducked low, muttering, “nuh nuh nuh nuh…”. That reaction you have when the situation you’re presented with is suddenly something your mind finds itself completely and totally unable to handle and decides instead to send random, contradictory instructions to all parts of your body, with the overriding command to ignore everything it just said and do something else instead. All in the attempt to keep everyone busy and buy some time until, hopefully, something changes and the situation becomes one it can actually deal with.

My guy, of course, was kind enough to stand beside, detecting on some instinctive level that Mary’s brain had just tripped a breaker and would require a moment to feel about in the dark until it could find the breaker box and correct matters. One of the contradictory messages my brain sending at the moment apparently being to keep an eye on him, I noticed him take up position next to me, casually, and look carefully around at our surroundings.

Because of course that’s what we were doing. We were casing the joint. No telling what kind of trouble we might be walking into. No, Mary’s not acting weird at all. This is a tactical assessment. Move along there, buddy. Nothing to see.

I got my head facing in a firm frontal direction again, rather than spinning about comically, in record time. I’m getting better at that, actually. Once my fluttery thoughts settled down enough, I was able to communicate with Matthew that I’d need a minute. I’m very glad it doesn’t take much more than a look to convey such things between us. Much more so that we developed this sympatico long years before dealing with such moments became a regular thing for us.

He even found something to amuse himself with just far enough away as not to intrude but close enough to come a’runnin’, managing to fit coffee in there somewhere, which he produced a minute later before retreating to the periphery again.

Damn, I love that guy.

And here’s the thing, you see. The memory that set that whole thing off. Not much of a flashback, this one, but every bit as soul-draining and nerve-wracking. The implications being such that I’d rather have not remembered this just now. But I’ve said before that the universe doesn’t care what you think. Likewise, your psyche hasn’t any concern for your preferences when it comes to dealing with such things. If it’s ready, it doesn’t really matter much if you are or not. Who’s asking you, Mary?

So I remember going to the hospital to see mother. I remember not really wanting to go and certainly not wanting to see her lying there looking so terrible. I’ll spare you the details. Anyone who’s ever visited anyone dying of cancer in the hospital knows what I mean.

And daddy grabs my arm out of the blue, digging his fingers and fingernails into my flesh painfully both to underscore how important it is that I pay attention and make clear the threat of violence should my mind wander while he relayed something I won’t mention here. Essentially, behave. With a strongly implied “or else.”

Maybe the most hurtful part of that was the assumption that I would do something bad in my mother’s hospital room. But, no. That wasn’t it. I didn’t even want to go see her. I would have much rather stayed home. I had already intended to be polite and quiet, wait impatiently until it was time to leave. Hopefully, find some reason to leave the room so I didn’t have to see her lying there looking as if she were already dead yet still somehow not.

And the tubes and needles. I was physically ill just remembering those now, more so then.

All of that wasn’t so dreadfully terrible to me right now. It’s not as if I didn’t recall my mother being in the hospital. I had some vague recollection of that and it had already made hospital visits something I grit my teeth, steel my face and suffer through on occasion. It was the fact that father was so cold and hurtful. That I feared him so much. I remember that I nearly wet myself a little when he dug his fingers into my arm, before he even bent over me and spoke.

The thing was…this was before my mother died. And he was supposed to have been wonderful back then. I remember clearly how wonderful he was. He would never do anything like that in those days.

I was already telling myself that maybe it wasn’t that odd. His wife was dying after all. Bound to make anyone a little irritable. But this was the man I remembered from much later years, not from those days or those that followed after. This wasn’t the good daddy, it was the bad one.

None of that really mattered right then, though. I didn’t have time for this crap. I had a friend to visit and I really didn’t want to deal with this stuff at the moment, so I put it away. Already I was determined not to deal with it. It never happened, I remembered it wrong, whatever. I had things to do. No time for this.

Except now I couldn’t go into that room. I couldn’t approach, open and cross the threshold of The Door. I certainly couldn’t see my friend lying there like that. It was time to leave and go home. Hide in a safe place. Close my eyes until it was over and pretend it hadn’t happened.

F***. Ain’t this grand?

But I knew what to do. Remembered to breath. Stomp my feet a little to remind me they were still there. Put my hand on the cool glass and felt the room I was standing in. Talked to her.

I did cheat a little, though. An acceptable cheat. I looked over my shoulder and gave my guy The Look. He came a’runnin’. He even traded coffees with me, so there’d be an excuse for him to come over. His was still hot, you see. Yeah, that’s it.

“Bad times?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you need?”

“Just…backup.”

“You got it.”

“…”

“I’m here.”

“I don’t think…I don’t know if I can.”

“It’s up to you, no one else. What are you gonna do?”

“…he’s a friend.”

“Right. Exactly.”

“Okay. Gimme a minute.”

So I waited. I sat and sipped my coffee and waited for it to pass enough to think clearly. Matthew watched some inane something or other on television. Time passed.

Then we went in there and spent a few minutes with a friend who’d laid up in bed for three days, so bored that even our company must have been hugely exciting. I gave him a card from both of us and held his hand for a minute. Matthew insisting on joking and making him laugh, despite the damage laughing probably did the poor guy and the pain it caused.

I told him I was having a hard time being there and that we’d have to leave soon. He told me not to apologize for that. I told him I wasn’t apologizing, just expressing that I care enough about him that I wished it was easier for me to stay. And he got it. And it was okay.

Then we left and went home.

It was a good day.

Not particularly enjoyable but that’s not a prerequisite for a good day.