I just came up from the Operating area. It’s not a room. No not a room. It’s a vast cavernous concourse. It’s down on the first floor – maybe the basement it is hard to tell. There are no windows. It’s not like TV. You know what it’s like? It’s like I imagine an air traffic control tower would look like. There are beds in numbered spots and huge monitors telling you where each patient’s is and what room the actual operation is happening. It’s all very efficient. There are people in hospital scrubs walking around with clipboards and computers and the monitors constantly roll names from bed spot to Operating Rooms. It’s all so …
Bonita gets up and wanders about tapping again.
Efficient – that’s a good word. It’s all so efficient as they move each unit of love from one room to another, slice them open and install something, or remove something. Efficient. I guess I’m glad for that. But… That’s what they are you know, each patient, a unit of love. At least to us. Downstairs they’re tasks; they’re the next one. They’re the one before lunch, the thing after coffee, or the last one for the day. They roll them in and roll them out, while families wait in one room with coffee, waiting to be pulled into a small private room when a doctor, you may or may not have met before, tells you if your unit of love is okay, sicker then you thought, or dead. (beat) Chance gave me these drumsticks. I don’t play. He gave then to me so I could tap on things when I was in grad school. Stress release. I use them more now than ever. You know, he thinks I’m beautiful. He really does. He’s funny like that.
Bonita starts making her way back to her chair.
There’s one drug they’re giving him – Methotrexate (promounced meth — o— trex — eight) I think it is call – that is so bad they have to give him an antidote when it’s done. Can you imagine? I think the toughest thing though is the new language. There is so much to learn and everyday there is something new.