The Meadow 45 benefactors and, in some cases, electrical heartbeats. Action lights up the triage. The nurse’s station bustles with activity. Beds are full of patients. We roll past a man’s space that smells of cold cuts and bile. Seated in the upright position he caresses a mangled, hairy leg with bone protruding through the shin at a, curiously, near right angle. Dried vomit is stuck to his chin as he rocks gently and hums, finding comfort in his own internalized, self-soothing rhythm. Dropped off at bed number five we’re told someone will be with us shortly because my case is urgent—the word used, in fact, is ‘acute’. My boyfriend helps me out of my clothes and into the gown folded neatly on the bed. I grimace as his fingers brush the welts on my back. The touch ignites a cauterizing burn, which suggests I am losing control over a body that is rapidly compressing. 20:17 | 100/70mmHg | ♥ 80 bpm | 37.9 °C | SpO2 92% A woman in navy scrubs approaches my bedside. “My name is Katherine,” she says, explaining that’s Katherine Old World style, with a ‘K’ instead of a ‘C’. Surrounded by a cloud of lavender, rubbing alcohol, and hint of jasmine, Katherine hooks me up to various machines so I, in part, become automated. The plastic clothespin hugging my finger glows red and I channel E.T., pointing the digit at my boyfriend. He reaches out and nervously laughs. Katherine’s eyes skip between the Timex on her wrist to the internal workings posted on the screen. I take a peek at the monitor, pretending to know what I’m looking for while ignoring the obvious, which is: it’s become a challenge to breathe. Katherine asks a series of questions I try to answer. Pretty in a Kappa Kappa Gamma way, she is tall and bronzed, thin and cute. Ponytail swishing, her hair gleams like solar flares while her upside-down, heart-shaped face is highly expressive, relaying more than words ever could. See those benches of
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