Maze
“I don’t know where I am,” she
said.
I turn and see an iron-haired
warrior of 70+ years speaking to a white coat.
White coat pauses, begins to open
his mouth.
Before he speaks, I hear the hum in
his head like a call bell in the brain: Disorientation!
In my mind I see thought bubbles
like cartoons above his head:
Dementia
… Delirium,
And, opening like clapboards under
these:
Polypharmacy,
infection, Na+ imbalance …
A young mom, bewildered toddler in
tow and one in her arms, enters the hallway,
Blinks behind the hair in her eyes,
nods and points with her chin—“That way
That way is reception. It’s a maze,
isn’t it?” and continues on her way.
“Thank you,” says the warrior. “What
a lovely family you have.”
White coat closes his mouth and
points toward reception,
Word bubbles popping around him.
I have been there—both the white
coat clinician and the older adult in the double gown.
From two sides of a precipice they
stand.
Worlds apart? Words apart?
For now I see that the ravine is
much smaller than it seemed to be.
The hospital without and within (the
mind) is a maze—
Full of twists and turns, sharp corners
and sudden ends.
There are no stars, no Sun, no
Northern range of mountains to orient the traveler.
And labels are oh-so-useful in
their place,
But signposts and compadres on the
journey?
They bring you home.
