Clara
The hospitals have a strange silence. It is not the absence of noise... It is a silence full of contained sounds; the constant beeping of a monitor, muffled footsteps in the hallway, voices that try not to break anything.
I'm sitting by my father's bed, I've never seen him like this. My father was always structure, column, order.
A man who filled a room without raising his voice. Now he's lying on overly white sheets, with a line in his arm and a monitor marking the rhythm of his heart as if he needed help remembering how to beat.
I lean forward and take his hand. It is warm, still firm.
That reassures me more than any diagnosis.
The doctor said that it was a strong episode, but that he will respond well to treatment. That they should do more studies. That must be monitored.
