I hate hospitals. Sea foam green walls and an antiseptic smell reminds me that death and illness happens to everyone. All the flowers in the world can’t change that.
When my brother was younger he got very sick and so my family made frequent trips to see him. He was on a nutrient drip and couldn’t ingest food so he soon became a skeletal like figure lying in the bed, looking around despondently, and never complaining. Looking at him made the lump in my throat throb and swallowing was the only way to prevent tears.
The man opposite us was old and I never saw his family visit. One day as we sat with my brother the doctors came to see him, drawing the curtains quickly and telling him in unemotional voices that his operation had been unsuccessful and he had a few weeks. Hearing quiet sobs behind opaque curtains was brutal, sad and awkward. My family sat in silence looking at the hard lino floors for a long time. I couldn’t shake the thought that people are in the hospital 365 days of the year and this was not just a temporary visiting ground.
At Christmas time my brother was released from the hospital and we went to the beach. As he put on his wetsuit I noticed how his long and gangly his legs were, like a parisian supermodel. There was something oddly beautiful about it and I felt so happy he was alive.
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