The Quiet Hours

It a strange time in hospitals, between 4:30 and 6:30. Mostly it’s sleeping, except there are several dozen individuals softly shuffling from room to room with their little baskets of vials, needles and tape. The blood collectors.

Some have taken the characteristics of the Vampire Bat. No, not a scary, hairy thing with wings. The Vampire Bat slowly crawls up to you, nips the flesh between the toes and gently licks the blood flow. You never know they are there.

I know they are there. I can feel there soft hands gently uncurling my fingers. I can feel the faint prick of the needle as vial after vial of blood is drawn from my body.

It’s a little game we play, they try not to wake me up, and I pretend that they succeeded.

It’s been a few days, I’m still in ICU. I might get a room today. I might be sent home. Someone is talking, someone is making the argument, but it’s not me, or the doctors that I’m talking to. That fine, lives are in the balance, the sick must be healed. I just wanted to know where to lay my head.

In hospital standards, I’m proven. I have given many gifts of urine, and I have successfully done Number Two. What more could they want from me?

Apparently I have to prove that I can shuffle the hallways, string together a series of short walks with my gown flapping in the breeze. Okay, sounds fair, but what about the other blockages? More stents? Or what?

About johndiestler

Retired community college professor of graphic design, multimedia and photography, and chair of the fine arts and media department.
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2 Responses to The Quiet Hours

  1. Anonymous says:

    Your style of writing reminds me of Anthony bourdain

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