Hospital

            I was hospitalized with pneumonia a few years ago. As I lay in my hospital bed, I have no choice but to take in my surroundings. The walls were so blank. The four white slabs appear to be forced together against their will. I can't help but think of the person in this room before me. It could have been an overdose, a heart attack, an accident. I don't feel his experience, only mine, in this lifeless room.
             I call it a room, but it is merely a small space cut off by a paper curtain. It's the same paper curtain that my patient uniform is made of. It's naked and cold in my room. There is only this thin paper separating my naked body from probing doctors. These doctors are up all hours of the night. I wonder if they may be taking a cut of the prescriptions. Their wide pupils and discolored skin suggest something. Maybe it's only my illness speaking. I lay there in boredom. Tests are done, needles stabbed. .
             Blood is a strange sight. Going through a needle, it looks like thick molasses. I"m a bit disappointed. I wouldn't expect my blood to be thick and sugary. I am neither. The color white is unusually prevalent in this environment. White walls, white cloaks, are trapping me in. .
             My neighbors are interesting. A speck of their life has somehow been colored into mine. The drunk next to me moans all night. Alcohol poisoning, I think. Having suffered the same, I consider offering my condolences, but mother always told me not to trust strangers. I feel more like her child in situations like this. I lay drugged up with the intravenous pouring in fluids, even though it seems more like it's sucking the life out of me. She holds my hand.
             The words Code Blue are nervously yelled over the page system. I ask what that means. My mother tells me someone may die. Although I"m in a place of sickness and death, I find this surprising. Maybe it's the codeine poured down my throat; maybe its some other drugs, but I begin to cry.