I am in a skilled nursing facility, recovering from a heart attack.
Or more precisely, from the stent procedure that saved me from the worst of it.
Truthfully, I didn’t think there would be a recovery.
It was a major failure, and quite frightening.
But a few days in ICU passed. I stabilized.
And now I’m here—
in the in-between.
You could call it a nursing home—
probably because it’s full of nurses,
and people from homes,
who no longer can get the care they need in their homes.
It’s often seen as the last place.
The hallway before hospice.
The place where people wait—
but not always to get better.
This isn’t Bedlam of Old London.
But late at night, it hums.
From behind closed doors,
you hear the plaintive calls:
“Hello?”
“Hello?”
There are call buttons by every bed,
but in the deepest hours of the night,
some seem unsure whether they still work.
I still have my usual sleeping habits.
I nap. I wake.
I’m up at odd hours.
Sometimes I open my door quietly
just to watch the hallway pass by.
There’s a grey-haired woman in a wheelchair.
She doesn’t speak much.
She propels herself by one foot—
gripping the wall rail with her hand.
Pulling. Pushing.
Lap after lap.
It’s one in the morning,
and she’s still at it.
Will this motion be counted as progress?
Will it return her home?
There are others—stroke victims—
brought out of their rooms during the day.
They sit in common areas,
silent, still.
Sometimes they blink.
Sometimes not.
They do not track the movement of nurses.
Or each other.
They are present,
but not always reachable.
I am one of the lucky ones.
I am relatively pain-free.
I can speak. I can walk. I am healing.
But I am also aware—
of where I am,
and who I’m with.
And I carry great empathy
for the people who line these hallways—
not just patients,
but fellow travelers
in this quiet, waiting world.
