Out Patient

Standing beside the bed, I look down at Sam.
Surgery to start in 15 minutes.
The anesthetic drip was taking him away.
He is not an “out patient”.

Pre-op was filling, all but 2 of 30 beds occupied.
White, blue and green uniformed staff
Moving at differing levels of responsibilities.
Whites might have rank, but blues ran the show
And greens did the work.
All, except the patients, wore sneakers

Each road leading us closer to the hospital
Increased our separation from those going elsewhere.
I wanted to stop and ask,
“Where are you going, could we exchange destinations?
I know your today will be easier than mine”.
(Maybe that’s not true, but I hold to the idea.)
How young some of the drivers look.

If Sam’s operation is successful,
He will buy a few months.
How many minutes and seconds is that?
Don’t trivialize by suggesting it is infinite,
I want no sophomoric philosophy.

I wish to feel the pain, not the separation that tells me I am safe.
Sounds good sitting in the IC waiting room.
No risk, book on my lap, no scalpels on my horizon.

Two hours later I’m told of success. (Why the hell does that word have duplicate letters?)
Post-op has a less hectic feel, less whites, more greens.
A short visit with Sam. He’ll be dopey ‘til tomorrow.

Home is silent, even with the TV on.
I speak with friends, but don’t record a word I hear or speak.
Tomorrow Sam will be alert. We’ll make plans.