Peredhil Posted June 14, 2004 Report Posted June 14, 2004 So I'm walking briskly down the hall, wanting to get OUT of the hospital, as I've completed the interview. I dislike hospitals even as I cherish and appreciate those who heal and who are healed. They just seem to reek of old pains which stain the walls like a subtle scent that one can't track. So I'm walking past the rooms, avoiding people in white and soldiers in camouflage, as they stride purposefully with clipboards and IV bags and other implements of healing. My boots are making an annoying squeaking noise every time my right foot hits the ground, and I find my thoughts silently chanting cadences to the rhythm produced. As I pass open doors, I glance in curiously, always wondering if I'll see someone I know, yet hoping not. So I'm peering into this one room and I stutter-step in surprise. There are bright crayon drawings all over the walls and a young man lying propped up against starched white pillows in the bed. But what catches my eye is the short blond with the ponytail lying sideways across the bed where his legs should be. The sleeve of his left arm is neatly folded up and secured with a "hair scrunchy", one of those wide stretchy fabric things that girls and women use. The scrunchy is pink with red and white hearts and matches the band tying the girl's ponytail into place. He smiles over her intent form - her attention is totally absorbed in meticulously creating another crayon masterpiece. He rumbles a bass, "Heya, Sarge, how're you?" "Fine," I reply. "Nice scrunchy!" "Yeah," he laughs. "When my battle buddies see it, they'll razz me to no end. I've got two more on the pajama legs that you can't see. Specialist, who's one of my nurses, has been taking her down to the Shoppette and letting her buy sets of four - three for me and one for her." He beams happily down at his child. "How'd it happen, soldier?" I've found that most of them appreciate honest curiosity. They know their life has changed, and pretending all is peachy is annoying. "IED, ya know, an Improvised Explosive Device? This one had bolts and nails in it. I was on a dismounted patrol and I happened to be the one in front of the alley. "Bummer." "Naw, I'm blest. My wife is still over there, Stop-loss in effect so we don't know when she'll come back, and this way I'm home with Amber. Plus I'm alive, that's a huge bonus when you have an angel like mine." "How's she taking it?" He reaches down with his right hand, careful of the IV, and nudges Amber. She looks up in annoyance. "What Daddy?" "Sarge wants to know what you think of Daddy's Owies." She turns and stiffens when she sees me. "Three chevwons and two Wockers are a Sawgent Fiwst Class Daddy! Not a Sawge," she corrects severely. Turning a high wattage smile on me, she pipes, "Good Afternoon, Sawgent Fiwst Class." "Good afternoon, Miss Amber." Her eyes are the green of an old Heinekein beer bottle. She has bits of green crayon on front teeth from helpful chewing in the creative effort. "What are you drawing?" "I'm dwawing for Mommy. We mail Mommy evewy day. Its a twuck, cause she dwives one." She holds it up for my scrutiny and looks at me proudly. I nod my approval and point out some details I like - and am pleasantly surprised when she knows the nomenclature and model of Mommy's truck. "So what do you think of your Daddy's Owies, Hon'?" "Well, they'weh bad, but it's okay. God left him his hugging ahm, and he w'ites with it too. And Mommy and I have all ouw hands so we can help him. And I fit just wight on his bed now to keep the bad dweams away fwom him." She pauses and then nods, as if she's decided she has met all requirements in her report. "It was good meeting you, Sawgent Fiwst Class, but I've got to finish this befouh mail call." She turns back to her drawing and my eyes meet her Dad's over her back. "Pretty smart girl you have there," I say, my voice a bit thick. "Yeah," he replies looking down at her. He looks up and continues, "Sometimes I think I'm the luckiest man in the world." So we exchange nods again. He thanks me for stopping to talk and I'm on my way. The quiet "just-so" positive attitude I keep encountering in this place is inspiring. I just wish the circumstances which bring it out weren't so harsh. So, I guess I'm done with this story.
WrenWind Posted June 15, 2004 Report Posted June 15, 2004 When i stop crying I'll write someting inteligent but for now ...You have writen a very good story Luv you Wren
Regel Posted June 16, 2004 Report Posted June 16, 2004 (edited) The true measure of a man can't be tolded by a measuring tape or an accountant but by the depth of the love that they inspire. I saw something very real is this story and enjoyed it very much. I dislike hospitals even as I cherish and appreciate those who heal and who are healed. They just seem to reek of old pains which stain the walls like a subtle scent that one can't track. Having worked in a hospital for several years this struck me as so true, the smell of disinfectant never quite kills the smell for me. It's always there under that mask the smell of illness, injury and death. The power of love personified in the person of a young lady who sees things clearly and uncomplicated. "Well, they'weh bad, but it's okay. God left him his hugging ahm, and he w'ites with it too. And Mommy and I have all ouw hands so we can help him. And I fit just wight on his bed now to keep the bad dweams away fwom him." She pauses and then nods, as if she's decided she has met all requirements in her report. Quite possibly the most visual and moving paragraph I have ever seen you write. If it was in my power I would nominate this piece to The Pen is Mightier's hall of fame. Edited June 16, 2004 by Regel
Gwaihir Posted June 16, 2004 Report Posted June 16, 2004 Regel, it is. We dont' really seem to have the thing organized, but maybe a bit of initiate is what the thing needs.
Peredhil Posted February 3, 2006 Author Report Posted February 3, 2006 Re-write. The "So I'm"s started to grate on me. fixed a verb tense; spelling. So I'm walking briskly down the hall, wanting to get OUT of the hospital, as I've completed the interview. I dislike hospitals even as I cherish and appreciate those who heal and who are healed. They just seem to reek of old pains which stain the walls like a subtle scent that one can't track. I walk past the rooms, avoiding people in white and soldiers in camouflage, as they stride purposefully with clipboards and IV bags and other implements of healing. My boots make an annoying squeaking noise every time my right foot hits the ground, and I find my thoughts silently chanting cadences to the rhythm produced. I pass open doors, I glancing in curiously, always wondering if I'll see someone I know, yet hoping not. I peer into this one room and I stutter-step in surprise. There are bright crayon drawings all over the walls and a young man lying propped up against starched white pillows in the bed. But what catches my eye is the short blond with the ponytail lying sideways across the bed where his legs should be. The sleeve of his left arm is neatly folded up and secured with a "hair scrunchy", one of those wide stretchy fabric things that girls and women use. The scrunchy is pink with red and white hearts and matches the band tying the girl's ponytail into place. He smiles over her intent form - her attention is totally absorbed in meticulously creating another crayon masterpiece - and rumbles a bass, "Heya, Sarge, how're you?" "Fine," I reply. "Nice scrunchy!" "Yeah," he laughs. "When my battle buddies see it, they'll razz me to no end. I've got two more on the pajama legs that you can't see. Specialist White, who's one of my nurses, has been taking her down to the Shoppette and letting her buy sets of four - three for me and one for her." He beams happily down at his child. "How'd it happen, soldier?" I've found that most of them appreciate honest curiosity. They know their life has changed, and pretending all is peachy is annoying. "IED, ya know, an Improvised Explosive Device? This one had bolts and nails in it. I was on a dismounted patrol and I happened to be the one in front of the alley. "Bummer." "Naw, I'm blest. My wife is still over there, Stop-loss in effect, so we don't know when she'll come back, and this way I'm home with Amber. Plus I'm alive, which is a huge bonus when you have an angel like mine." "How's she taking it?" He reaches down with his right hand, careful of the IV, and nudges Amber. She looks up in annoyance. "What Daddy?" "Sarge wants to know what you think of Daddy's Owies." She turns and stiffens when she sees me. "Three chevwons and two Wockers are a Sawgent Fiwst Class Daddy! Not a Sawge," she corrects severely. Turning a high wattage smile on me, she pipes, "Good Afternoon, Sawgent Fiwst Class." "Good afternoon, Miss Amber." Her eyes are the green of an old Heineken beer bottle. She has bits of green crayon on front teeth from helpful chewing in the creative effort. "What are you drawing?" "I'm dwawing for Mommy. We mail Mommy evewy day. Its a twuck, cause she dwives one." She holds it up for my scrutiny and looks at me proudly. I nod my approval and point out some details I like - and am pleasantly surprised when she knows the nomenclature and model of Mommy's truck. "So what do you think of your Daddy's Owies, Hon'?" "Well, they'weh bad, but it's okay. God left him his hugging ahm, and he w'ites with it too. And Mommy and I have all ouw hands so we can help him. And I fit just wight on his bed now to keep the bad dweams away fwom him." She pauses and then nods, as if she's decided she's met all requirements in her report. "It was good meeting you, Sawgent Fiwst Class, but I've got to finish this befouh mail call." She turns back to her drawing and my eyes meet her Dad's proud eyes over her back. "Pretty smart girl you have there," I say, my voice a bit thick. "Yeah," he replies looking down at her. He looks up and continues, "Sometimes I think I'm the luckiest man in the world." We exchange nods again. He thanks me for stopping to talk and I'm on my way. The quiet "just-so" positive attitude I keep encountering in this place is inspiring. I just wish the circumstances which bring it out weren't so harsh. But I'm a soldier, not a story-teller, so I guess I'm done.
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