HW 27 - Visiting an unwell person

       I was never fond of the beige and white colored walls of the hospitals.  Ironically, I pass these walls every thursday during my internship as Mount Sinai Hospital.  During my one hour break, I took my time to choose a room, in which an ill person was situated, to observe.  After a good minute, I had chosen a room and peeked slightly inside the room so my presence would not startle anyone.  The wrinkles on her forehead told me she had spent a fair amount of time on this earth and the movement of her hands were slow and shaky.  Admittedly, I felt like an intruder because I was observing a stranger in their most vulnerable state.  I stood, leaned against the wall, looking from a distance through her door.  I realize the distance I set between me and this frail old woman was because I was uncomfortable and thought my presence would be completely unwelcoming.  The feeling of welcome fled as soon as a number of doctors and family members of patients gave me ambiguous looks and were probably wondering what I was doing just standing in a hallway.  I'm not sure what to make out of my reaction.  As the frail woman smiled weakly at me, I offered a pitiful smile and somehow felt I should explain to her why I was standing in the hallway and what my intentions of doing so were.  Unfortunately, I didn't even though I should have.  Soon after, I had learned her name as a woman greeted and asked the woman, "Hello Bernice, how are you feeling?"

       The bed that Bernice was laying on looked uncomfortable and stiff, as I imagine all hospital beds are like.  From her neck down, Bernice didn't move a bit.  Her head would turn once in a while as she adjusted her view to something that caught her eye.  I wondered what she spent her day thinking about; was it her grandchildren? Does she have grandchildren? The faces she saw? The white lab coats doctors wore? One can assume correctly that I never found out what she was thinking so, my thoughts wandered onto the next thing.  The beeping sounds that had momentarily bothered me hadn't a observable influence on Bernice.  Though it was remarkably quiet, the distinct beeping noises rang through my ears.  Bulky machines, held up by some faulty tables, made little noises that I could only think would be heard in hospitals.  As I tried to decipher what Bernice was thinking, her blank expression offered me nothing.  It looked as if she was neither sad or happy. 

       In the time I spent observing Bernice, I had learned nothing of her past or her future.  I saw the sickness of a frail women, the lack of personal items such as flowers, paintings, and get well cards in her room, the lack of windows, and the abundance of pitiful smiles from nurses and people alike.  I believe when we see a person with a sickness, the ability to admire or have interest in their future and past is gone.  I've come to understand this concept more through Beth Bernett's experience with life and death.  Beth had said that it's difficult to look past a patient's illness to realize that they once had a colorful past.  When Erik, Beth's now deceased husband, was sick in the hospital, Beth put Erik's paintings in Erik's hospital room to provide strangers a look into Erik's career, life, and family.  By doing so, people could see Erik not just as a terminal patient but, a strong-willed man with a successful art career and a family.