The quiet room

( night shift at a New Jersey rehab hospital )

Entering E.’s darkened room, as my eyes adjust to the drastic change from the harsh glare of the light in the corridors of the hospital , to the cave-like darkness of room 205, I can just make out the outline of the nurse whose job it’s been to keep this patient company, 24 / 7 , should he suffer another seizure. E. has been plagued by seizures for nearly his whole life ; each one taking him further and further away . Or in , I guess. E. Has never used words to communicate; though he DOES have some ASL ( American Sign Language ) to convey his desires to the world outside - just a few, very basic symbols : “ drink “, “ eat “ , and “ more “. And “ massage “. He loves ( I guess ) to have his back rubbed ; though he usually dispenses with sign language altogether , and just grabs your hand and positions it over his shoulder, by the nape of his neck. His case file goes so far as to instruct support personnel that if you begin to massage E. , be prepared to massage E. for an extended period of time; say, at least 20 minutes, or he’ll get a bit crotchety ; and E. voices his disapproval with harsh, prolonged screams and growls, as well as weird clicks, clucks, and whirring noises, not unlike a Star Wars android, or a dying automatic transmission .

I find some of the information in E.’s file ( as well as other residents’ files ) to be of somewhat dubious quality, in terms of the day-to-day reality of their livesThe header to the file has a desired outcome of the various therapies being applied, and I find many of them kind of silly , and wishful thinking, at best.Does THIS resident “ wish to communicate better “ ? Perhaps, though Im inclined to think that right now, he just wants a fucking cookie; and thats all -

“You give me a cookie, and our business is done here, thank you very much….what’s with all this instructional nonsense ?”

I GET the whole point of this, I do, and its all good, but I ALSO think; “ this guy is almost 40 years old, and he’s been stuck in this place for decades ; when , finally, is school-time over ? The fact that they’re still here is miracle enough : when do they get to just dumb-down in front of a t.v., I.pad , or Etch-a-sketch , like the rest of us ?

E. is in this rehab hospital, because he began refusing his medications. Again.

We’ve been down this road before, and it’s grim. Prior to this episode, E. has had numerous hospitalizations related to his stubborn refusal to take the medicines that control his seizures. Each seizure is like a forest fire, devastating all living matter in its path. Unlike a forest fire, what E. loses, never grows back. All the miraculous neuro-plasticity ( the brain’s ability to seek or build new neural pathways ) in the world , couldn’t overcome the havoc that over 30 years of seizures has wrought on his brain. His file has him as “ learning-disabled “, but I cant help wonder ; is he really ?

I believe that we are NOT our bodies . We are CONNECTED at birth- with a dawning awareness of “ self “ and “ other “, but like the tenant is connected to the apartment . This body ; this shell of animated meat and bone, is where we live, but not who we are.

This,of course, implies a life beyond our bodies - an afterlife , but also a BEFORE life. I have NO idea what that means ; what a life beyond the hours and the days we spent here, toiling on our lonely sphere, looking towards the stars, while we count the days, could possibly look like. But we fight our way here ; bruised on departure from our mother’s womb, drawing breath upon arrival, celebrating survival of our nine month journey , to live outside the saltwater world of our origin; the motherland. Death is always over our shoulder, but the will to BE, denies the darkness full sway over our lives. Those who wish to live, instinctively know that, however hard the life given, it’s brevity draws our attention toward the moments of pure gift - dramatic purple and crimson sunsets…. a seagull , in still life, hung on a cloudless sky ; almost motionless against tendrils of golden light , against the first threads of an utterly unique weave of sunrise; gold and purple and crimson ; royal colors, all drawn across the loom of heaven, and day begins..one of billions and billions and billions , and we , are witness to it, again and again and again.

This, is the common gift of all who get to live.

In the dark, in this hospital room, E. doesn’t even look out the window.

All his attached wires and I.V. Feeds , make lying on his stomach impossible, and he hates lying on his back, a position he’s been in for over 2, almost 3 months. We can pull him over on his side, when we clean him up, but then he rolls onto his back, and he makes his displeasure known by a harsh scream, that fades into sobbing. I try not to project my feelings onto him, but I wonder if this “ learning disabled “ man, is fully cognizant of his predicament , and is lost amidst the smoking wires and burned-out diodes of his organic brain chemistry, tortured for over 30 years by seizure’s electrical tsunamis , destroying all bridges leading out of his dark world.

This looks , and feels , like a genuine hell.

E’s arrival, after 10,000 years journey through his ancestral roots and branches, crashed and burned on impact. My arrival here, 66 years ago, was much more fortuitous. Both our journeys, it turns out , are connected.

His suffering, has directed me towards a greater appreciation of my brief life, and makes my heart ache for the wasted moments of petty anger and jealousy.

I am grateful for the amazing and priceless gift of my ability to just simply walk out of here. E. reminds me to never forget - sunsets, sunrises, love, loss, joy, sorrow ..

The forward flow of change, eternal, relentless change..I can feel it, like the receding tide, flowing around my ankles , on sandy beaches ; the same ; all over the earth, for everyone who can walk to the water, and enter the ocean, like returning to the motherland

My god, I am so lucky . Thank you for all these things , and thank you for this soul, who washed up on this dark beach, in my life , at this hospital, on a Tuesday night.

I take my latex gloves off to massage E.’s legs, so he can feel skin-on-skin,

He’ll understand what I mean