I'll never understand why a clock ticks louder when you don't want to hear it. So much of my life flys by with the sounds of my kids, my husbands comforting voice, family, friends and the whirl of an espresso machine. Never, in those moments do I hear the clock.
My G-ma is in the hospital right now and I swear I can hear every tick of every clock in perfect synchrony as if I were listening to it through headphones.
We don't know for sure what's wrong with her or if she'll be released soon. We're playing the waiting game and no one seems to be in a hurry. Last night shortly after midnight when I was racing the paramedics to G-ma's door I swear I could hear the digital clock in my car switching over; 12:41....click, 12:42....click, 12:43....click. Then, after the paramedics evaluated her and had her loaded in the ambulance, they were walking, normal paced walking, back to the fire truck, back to close the ambulance doors and back to the driver seat. The clock wouldn't move, everything was at the same slow pace as the paramedics foot falls. The logical side of my brain reminded me that their lack of hustle meant it wasn't an emergency to race the clock against. Good, right? Except that's my G-ma. Run damn it! Race to the hospital, make her comfortable, fix her and do it fast! But life doesn't work that way.
Now, tonight, she's seemingly better but we're waiting on one Dr. for an evaluation. Run damn it! Race to get her evaluated, make her comfortable, find what's wrong so we can fix it and get out of this clock ticking, machine beeping, sterile smelling prison. Again, logically, I know that the lack of rush means the situation is not an emergency that can be fixed better with quick action. Except that's my G-ma!
I remember being in this same hospital for births, near deaths, surgeries and other life changing events and every time I feel haunted by the damn clocks. The hustle and bustle going on outside the door somehow pails to the tick tock. The t.v volume never gets louder than the clock. Even the cafeteria with its comfort inducing grease food and tables full of people still has over a hundred clocks ticking away.
I remember walking these halls belly first in a hospital gown leaning on my husband and any nearby pillar for support as contractions slowly brought Anthony closer and closer into my arms. I remember counting my toe-socks shuffle down the halls. Counting in time to the clock. Tick, tick, tick. Loathing and relishing every time I wouldn't make it to the next minute before a contraction hit.
To be fair, I have to admit the tick has haunted me outside of these hospital walls. Pappy's wrist watch was hooked up to a megaphone that blasted next to my head each and every tick for each and every hour I laid there with him as he was dying. The comfort of my Papa's house was marred by the same clock so loud I could feel each jarring tick deep with in my bones as we watched the cancer force his good bye.
I wonder, when my time comes, God willing many, many years from now, if I will relish each second I still have surrounded by family or once again loath the tock for each moment it's robbing me of? Or making me wait? Or making my family suffer the sound?
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