Dear Friends and Family,
When the elevator door opened this afternoon, I was shocked to see so many people. A thirtysomething male carrying his lunch tray from the basement cafeteria studied my face: “Don’t be shy. We’ll make room.”
I secured a spot in the left front corner of the “car” while I analyzed the scene and realized the answer. Surprisingly, this was the first time I had arrived at the hospital during lunch, the middle of posted “visiting hours.” In contrast, I usually arrive early in the morning or deep into the night. During the majority of my rides I am alone, able to make funny faces with impunity to the mirrors composing the elevator walls.
The packed elevator stopped at every single floor. Anxious fathers departed to the obstetrics floor. An athletic-appearing woman exited to the orthopedic wing. Middle-aged sons and daughters rushed to the internal medicine floor.
By the time the door closed on the seventh floor, a fortyish female was my only companion. Her tall, thin frame was slightly hunched, as if she was carrying the weight of the world. I couldn’t help but notice bloodshot, puffy eyes. Her facial expression resembled what I assume someone would look like while being stuck with needles underneath each of her fingernails—pained.
Noticing my gaze, she looked downward. Similar to her eyes, mine were also red and swollen. As is typical, the trip down the mountain from Park City to the hospital had included my daily cry. The woman nodded. I was an accepted member of the fraternity.
“You going to the eighth, too?” she asked softly. “Never thought I’d dread visiting a penthouse.”
Floor number eight, the penthouse of this hospital, is the “cancer floor.”
Nearest to heaven?
The woman and I disembarked in silence. And I did not make a funny face in the mirror today.
Since it was midday, I stopped in Room 801, now “home” to Megan, the twenty-two-year-old Park City girl with advanced ovarian cancer, whom I wrote about a few days ago. I hesitated a few moments and then carefully wiped my eyes before entering her room.
Summary: As I wax poetic, I sometimes find metaphors in my new daily life. I am plagued by unanswerable questions. The final stop on the elevator is the penthouse (eighth) floor where Nancy and my young friend, Megan, reside. It is closest to heaven.
So much love,
Winnie