Ward 121

I had a few moments before it was my turn to undergo the gastrointestinal-endoscopy. It was depressing to see all these patients sitting there int he waiting room, and the air was stale, so I ventured out of the ward into the corridors. Even ornate fresh flower arrangements and cheerfully colourful paintings made by children do not make hospital waiting rooms less depressing.

Earlier, as soon as I received the appointment form that indicated the procedure would be on the twelfth floor of the hospital, memories were triggered. And as I ventured around the floor, more and more memories started to flood back... the walls, the floors, the decorations, the health advisory and anti-smoking campaign posters. It all seemed so familiar.

I thought I had forgotten where, but as soon as I turned a corner I saw the orange door entrance to the ward. Ward 121. The ward where dad was sent to, where he spent his final days, and where he had gradually passed away in my hands.

At the entrance to Ward 121 I peeked in. A group of elderly men and women sat talking in Taiwanese in the corner. Nurses and doctors talked inaudibly with their heads down to one another. The ward was lit brightly, and shaped like a star, so that every corner of the ward extended into private rooms. I looked into one end of the ward, and knew that there, in that one room was where it all happened.

I saw dad being wheeled out, and us, the family, trailing behind him... I saw myself kneeling on the floor, whispering by his ear... I remembered that rush to the room when I received the final phone call...

I turned and walked away.