I don’t go to hospitals–at all. Nineteen years ago, in the middle of trying to push my nine-and-a-half pound son out of my only slightly larger body, I asked my midwife if it was too late to go to the hospital. I felt certain I was at death’s door (or about to shove someone else through it). When she said we were past that point, I thanked her. I’ve always felt safer at home. My only hospital-avoidance exceptions were the two times my mother went in and needed me to hold her hand and when I thought my uncle was dying. Until last week.
Last week at a local women’s gathering, I hear about the car accident. The night before, a dear friend and mentor, who is about four feet tall and eighty-five-years young, had been sent to an emergency room. We do not have details, including whether she is still hospitalized. I feel relieved that she is alive, but I am sobered by the reminder that “bad” things happen to people I love.
One of the women has a greeting card with her: two cartoon zebras and the words, “Thinking of You.” We pass the card around, and when we close I offer to deliver it. Once outside I call my friend’s cell, but she does not answer. Instead I speak with her grandson and his dad, who tell me she is still in the hospital. For the first time in my life, there is nowhere else I want to be.
On the way, I stop at Pavilions and, with pooled money from the ladies, I buy flowers: a lavender hyacinth because it smells so good, and a pot of what look like miniature sunflowers, deep golden yellow and very alive, like my friend.
Despite what some might consider advanced age, I know her to be as spry and agile as anyone I know. She’s often played chauffeur for a friend, carries her own bags and politely refuses help. Her hair and nails are always done and she wears pink lipstick and a smile. She is a hummingbird of a woman.
I find parking at West Hills Hospital to be easy, free and shady, if you don’t mind walking a bit. When I walk in and request a visitor’s pass, I invite the ladies behind the desk to smell the hyacinth. From their expressions, I imagine this simple courtesy is rare, and I feel good to offer. My friend does that for me. She inspires me to be kind and gentle and to share simple pleasures.
I take the elevator to the fifth floor and walk happily into a room occupied by two women who look nothing like my friend. My mistake. She is next door, wearing hospital clothes, oxygen tubing, an I.V. drip, and a rigid neck brace. Her granddaughter greets me over an open laptop and explains that a cervical vertebra is fractured and we’re awaiting word from the neurosurgeon. My friend looks up and smiles, and I lean over to kiss her elbow. I sit on the edge of the bed, and we chat for a while, holding hands.
In the past few months, my friend and I have sat several times. When she needs a ride, I threaten to thumb-wrestle anyone who’s managed to volunteer before me. When we arrive at her house, we sit and I listen. She talks to me about love, about God, and about how simple life is. We do not share political views. We share “above the world,” from our hearts, where the mind cannot interfere.
On Saturday I call my friend for progress. Her granddaughter answers and I tell her that her grandmother is like a daisy in a field where perhaps there aren’t that many daisies.
Maybe this is why I’ve shifted, or maybe I’ve lost enough people to wake me up. I’ve spent enough life force on worrying, work and responsibilities. It’s time to trust the flow and invest my life only in what is real.
My friend has opted for surgery. The doctors say the procedure is not unusual for people her age and she has ideal health conditions for this less-than-ideal situation. She will heal in about six weeks. I am grateful for another day with her. I don’t plan to waste it. I will breathe deeply and enjoy the sweetness. Life is eternal, but flowers don’t stay in bloom forever.
Sage Knight is a ghostwriter, inspirational author and speaker, and Literary Midwife. She and her Golden Retriever, Shiloh, live at Top O’ Topanga and welcome your visits to www.SageKnight.com.
