KA Rees #70 - Hospital Pass

Hospital Pass

Gate

I

At the pearly gates there’s a sign

that says WAIT. There is no one around,

that’s why the letters are large, WAIT

perhaps the souls who turn up at these gates are myopic,

the letters act as a break on further

motion—like seeing a STOP sign—your foot clamps down

on the pedal. Perhaps

we can assume

souls who wait come from continents that contain

traffic signals,

and, although corpse-less, remain aware of protocols required to STOP

and WAIT for further signals—while other souls—unbeknown

to the sign, glide on.

Building

II

The hospital is mostly white. The parking lot full of stickered cars. There

are directions on how to get to wards and instructions for soon-to-be-patients

to register as a patient. Once registration is complete, a room is allocated;

a nurse asks your name, date of birth and procedure you

are in hospital for. Every time the patient has an interaction with a nurse,

these details are requested. It’s called liturgy for a medical

practice.

You are fitted with two pieces of plastic that state your name, date of birth,

ward, and admission date. One is strapped around your ankle, the other round

your wrist. The next time the nurse asks you name and date of birth

you point to the piece of plastic studded at your wrist.

She says, not unkindly,

I’m sorry, we need you to confirm.

Confirm that my full first name is only ever used

by my mother when I am in the shit. Confirm I am 44

years old. Confirm, the lump I thought was an enlarged

voice box loosing its fight

with gravity, is a tumour with cellular growth

of two distinct varieties.

Hospitals, it seems, are a combination of Mother Teresa and Monty Python.

Machine

III

On the fettered machines at the side of the room

and above the bed are pictures on how to wash hands

for sanitation and patient safety. There are

instructions for patients to read ‘The Instructions’

and understand patient obligations. There are many

obligations, the least of which

is your obligation to report any grievance

against your person.

I glance

down

at my name and date

of birth strapped

to my wrist

and ankle,

make a mental note

to write

a poem on the topic

‘obligation’.

IV

IV

The cannula is inserted into the vein on your left hand

the memory falls like rain on a salt pan, how the pain

of this prick

lasts as long as the pain of birthing

the ones that

became your children, when you were incredulous

with a paper cut after a 36 hour labour. How

is it possible this

thin red line

should burn? After all of the pain

we should somehow
be more.