The smell of urine lingers in the air and I lay dormant in a room in the far left corner of the hallway, secluded. I am hardly used, but when I am it’s not in the brighter sense of the word. I am laid on, stepped on, jumped, on and peed on. Not the greatest job in the world but I was kind of thrown into the family business. A nurse slips in the door with linen sheets in her hands; she washes me down and drapes the sheets over my vinyl body. A few stiff pillows are thrown at my head and are placed in a neat fashion atop my face.
I have seen many patients wheeled into my sleeping quarters. I have seen broken arms, broken hearts, swine flu, stroke, heart attack and heart failure just to name a few. Many times people stay for a few days and check out, much like a hotel. There are some instances though where the patients never leave, they just go still and rigid and draw in a deep last breath as their soul escapes their bodies.
Today may or may not be different, the nurse wheels in the newest victim. His small body is wrapped in tattered and bloody clothing. He is hooked to an IV and a ventilator. The frail child seemed unconscious and unresponsive when the nurse transferred him from the gurney to my softer surface. The nurse positioned him with his hands atop his chest and hooked all of his machinery to the wall plug.
During the next week many people visited; family, friends, and acquaintances all stopped by to pay their respects to the small child and his mother and father. His mother sat in a chair next to me, tears drained from her eyes all hours of the day. She had a small white bandage on her face covering a sliver of a cut. From what I had gathered as people poured in and out the doors or my sanctuary, the little boys name was Heath. Heath was 6 years old and he was in a fatal car accident. His mother was driving him home from a soccer game that ran late and she fell asleep at the wheel. Crossing over into the other lane she was struck by a large truck. The truck hit directly on the side of the car that Heath had been asleep. When he arrived at the hospital he was unresponsive but had a faint pulse and nothing much has changed.
Days and weeks passed by as many doctors came in and inspected the child. He was put on life support and the family was allowed to come in and say their goodbyes on the last day. At around 12 o clock on the last day of this child’s life a little girl with bleach blonde locks came knocking on the door of the room. She asked Heath’s mother if she could say her goodbyes. Her voice was gentle as she strained to keep her composure. She sat her frail body on my surface and it felt as if a cloud was sitting atop my lap. The little girl took Heath’s hand in hers; the tears flowed out of her eyes like a sprinkler had been set on high. She sat and stared at the child’s lifeless body as she sobbed, after about 10 minutes of crying she spoke.
“I miss you Heath, please come back.” She said softly and hugged the child’s small frame. “Please.” She pleaded. When no response came she broke down and sobbed loudly. Heath’s mother came running into the room and hugged the little girl in a calming fashion. The mother picked up the child and carried her out of the room hugging her. After everyone had paid their respects to the family and Heath the doctor came stumbling into the room. He stood over the small boy and turned off the ventilator. The large machine stopped whirring and the room seemed dismally silent. The doctor pulled a white sheet over Heath’s face and called for the nurse to clean the room. He wheeled Heath’s body into the hallway and down the hall towards the holding room.
I adverted my eyes to the corner of the room where a small, translucent, boy sat with his arms covering his chest and tears streaming down his face. The boy was Heath, I watched as he lifted up his head and wiped the tears from his eyes. He stood and looked up towards the ceiling, in the instance that the boy had shown up, he was gone.
Since then many people have cried in my room over family members but Heath is the one I will never be able to forget in my life as a hospital bed.