I don’t like hospitals.
Not some intense phobia where I can’t step into them, but just a general aversion. If I can intelligently avoid going into a hospital I will. What’s interesting is that it doesn’t apply to doctor’s offices, where I have no issues being within. But ask me to go to a hospital and I begin to feel mildly ill.
I grew up in hospitals. Sounds marvelous, no? My father was, still is in fact, a practicing radiologist in Puerto Rico. On weekends he’d take me with him to read x-rays in various hospitals around the island where he was part of the staff and I’d sit, watching him scroll through the machine, reciting medical terms into a handheld voice recorder. I’d try to pay attention, ask questions to fight off the boredom and when he was so inclined, he’d share with me what he saw and how it related to human physiology.
But there were many times when he was in a hurry, didn’t want to be bothered and I’d have to sit patiently, remaining quiet to avoid creating noise that could interfere with the transcription. I wasn’t allowed to leave the room either, lest I pester others. I was one of those kids that would hit the large red button, to satisfy my insatiable curiosity.
Those were many of my weekends with the man. Sitting in hospitals, where the smell of the disinfectant would invade my nostrils as soon as I followed him in through the service entrance. I soon learned to hate the smell but if you were to ask me to describe it, I’d be at a loss. It was like a typical antiseptic smell, one that you’d associate with cleaning buckets and spray bottles. Very difficult to explain to one that hasn’t experienced but stark and unmistakable.
I can always remember the cold fluorescent lighting splashing off of the linoleum floors, which created muddled reflections below my feet anytime we walked in. My father’d be clutching my small hand in his paw, tugging me as I craned my neck, trying to see activity that always seemed to occur out of sight but within earshot. My mind would race, imagining what might be happening, always disappointed as I sat in another cold plastic chair, listening to the whirring motors as the x-rays rolled past. Traveling from one large drum to the other on machinery that contained the fate of hundreds of people’s lives. I was mildly frightened by this contraption, always envisioning I would be entangled on the moving sheets and trapped within. I’ve always had an extremely vivid imagination.
That’s part of it.
Hospitals rarely include positive memories for most, save the birth of their children. And I’m no different. Various injuries and ailments always resulted in a visit to the hospital and because of who I was, I was usually ushered in without hesitation. But this benefit wasn’t without drawbacks.
When I was thirteen, I injured myself. That day, I heard a cat outside my window complaining. Curious as to why the cat was mewling, I reached my arm through the slats, pulling myself up to gain a better vantage. The ledge was narrow and wet, and I slipped. But my arm didn’t snake its way back through the slats quickly enough and the bones gave. I was rushed to the emergency room, into the back where I held my arm, tears streaming down my face, awaiting my father’s friend who was en route. Seated next to me was a man who’d carelessly rolled a circular saw over the hand he’d been using to brace the plywood, severing most of his fingers. And I was already in shock from the pain. Watching that man hold his arm above his heart as the nurse changed the bandage, waiting to be attended by whatever physician was on call is an image committed to memory forever. I was nauseated but never vomited, but I carried the sickened feeling with me until I was able to sleep that evening.
And then my great-grandfather was hospitalized.
There were other events that had transpired between the two events but none that affected me as deeply. I was in the Navy at the time, and out to sea on maneuvers on board the aircraft carrier. I was told by my divisional officer there was an urgent message and I was called to our workstation, to be informed that my mother had contacted them. The message was relayed that my great-grandfather had fallen ill, and was currently hospitalized. I was given the option of being flown off the ship, to the commercial airport where I would be able to board a flight to the west coast, to be at his side.
Arriving at the hospital, I learned that while I had been traveling west, my great-grandfather had slipped into a coma and was now unresponsive. The sight of a man, whom was very powerful, an imposing figure that I’d watched fight marlins while deep sea fishing, was reduced to a man-sized child. His sheets were as if swaddling cloths, and days after my arrival, he passed away.
Seeing his lifeless body, being told by the medical staff that he was no longer with, it wasn’t like a film drama. It was much colder, and quite sad. The room was filled with family, nearly every one crying, saddened by the loss of a man we revered. But I couldn’t cry. I didn’t. I was the one every one had turned to for strength, to hold them up before they collapsed, sobbing into my chest. I dealt with the loss in my own way, and it wasn’t months later that I truly mourned him.
The fluorescent lights, the linoleum floors, the echo of footsteps from the walls, all of these I can remember when thinking about being within the hospital walls. But if you ask me what the most intense memory is, I’ll tell you that it’s the smell of that disinfectant.
And I rather not be reminded what it smells like again.
