On Tuesday, I went with a friend to visit her father in the hospital. It was some kind of offbeat Jesuit hospital where the waiting rooms are staffed by statues of the Virgin Mary and the Chapel’s always open even when the cafeteria and the gift shop have long been closed.
We entered the building through a street level lobby, though the signs attempted to convince us it was the 4th floor. The second floor (6th according to the elevator) was pine fresh and lily white. We passed the nurses station and watched the hallway traffic hum with the ‘beep, beep, beep’ of heart monitors. I felt at ease now, reassured that the Jesuits hadn’t substituted holy water for penicillin, radiology for the rosary.
My friend’s father was in good spirits. He’s had a couple of heart surgeries over the years, and it’s always a bit frightening for the family when there’s complications. (There will always be complications.)
“How are they treating you?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said as my friend, a nurse herself, noticed that the one of the monitor cuffs was too tight, and another was restricting the movement of his hands.
“What did the nurses do to you?” she asked playfully, readjusting them for his comfort.
“I don’t know,” he told us. “They’ve been nice.”
“Seems to me they’re a bit flighty around here,” she said. Just then a nurses aid came into the room, apologized for the inconvenience, and proceeded to scotch tape a yellow paper to the wall beside the patient’s bed.
“Just a checklist,” the aid explained. “We’re trying to make sure everybody keeps their eyes on ball around here, pays attention to the details.”
She left before noticing that she’d taped the sign upside down.
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