I parked my SUV on the second floor, walked down the ramp, and crossed the busy road. I couldn’t take a chance with the street parking and the meters; I had some unpaid violations. The long walk always gave me an opportunity to gather my thoughts before I stumbled through the revolving doors to check in as a visitor. I wondered when that title would no longer apply. I’d been there at the hospital every day that week. The same hospital my daughter was born in. The same hospital where my late father waited in the delivery room, playing African drum rhythms on his cellular phone, and pacing the floor in anticipation of his new granddaughter. It was a unique atmosphere now, it transformed, it was currently my tabernacle of fear.
My mother was admitted weeks ago. This ongoing battle with Myeloma added an additional layer of hospital stays, blood transfusions, and checkups to what was once a normal routine. This time, there was no simple discharge. This time, we were using unfamiliar words like “discontinue”, “comfort,” and “hospice.”
So, every day, I faithfully frequented the chapel. The chapel was always dimly lit with hanging bulbs that looked like 9 illuminated tear drops encased in glass. There were swirls that resembled hills on the brown wallpaper. In this space of interfaith, there was Janamaz for Muslim Salah. There were rosaries, prayer request notebooks, New Testament Bibles and Mala beads. A little something for everyone. The space welcomed all spiritual influences. I often wondered how many people just take a chance and pray to all of them in desperation. How many of us are just folded over in faith and fear simultaneously in a place where they say the two cannot coexist? When the daily multivitamins, “apple a day”, standing in the sun for Vitamin D, 30 minutes of movement, 8 hours of sleep, and 8 glasses of water didn’t work or didn’t happen: what then? Who would come to the aid of the loved ones sending text messages, lighting candles, sprinkling holy water, and mounting cards with get well wishes at her bedside? What ambulance could teleport my anxiety out of this place where I was supposed to be summoning optimism? I crouched on my knees, my calves, ankles, and feet positioned to the left and right of my rear. I put my face between my knees, unconcerned about the carpet germs. Could this be a place of miracles? Could the sobs of the heavyset, middle-aged man next to me to be some ukuthwasa manifesting healing or signaling the Savior? Or would this just forever be the place that would covet a part of my heart and cremate it to an insoluble stench like the ashes of the cigarettes the “visitors” chain-smoked?