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drewkittyGWOT V - A State of Desperation - Cancer Ward
From reading the directory (before my involuntary escort to the psych ward) I had learned that Northern Medical City was organized on functional lines.
There were separate wards for foot and leg amputations. Also for hand and arm.
What caught my eye was the Cancer Complex. It had, as many such facilities do, extensive gardens to distract the people suffering.
It also had three statues, each guarding a path. The center path, beyond the gardens, led to a sunken garden. A weeping angel labeled "Angel of Grief." I read the plaque.
"This bronze was cast from a 3D printed image of the original at the decommissioned Stanford Hospital. For All Those We Have Lost."
The statue on the left was labeled "Not Yet."
It still gives me nightmares.
A large black stone is cantilevered over the rest of the piece, like a domino about to fall.
A child of indeterminate gender is barely propping up a piece of long rebar, as if to stop the stone. The angle is not yet right and even once it is, the contest between the child and the stone is clearly unfair.
Sprawled just behind the child is an injured pregnant woman, forever caught in a cry to the child.
A directions sign just beyond indicates "Chemotherapy."
The statue on the right is a grinning skull. Just the skull. It seems to invite, as if to a party. The title is almost hidden under the jaw. "Time"
I follow that path, which is not labeled.
It leads to a long low building.
Camera and guard follow me as I open the heavy bronze door. A carefully blank faced attendant wearing solid black, a severe suit, makes no move to help or to press the button on the handicap pedestal.
Beyond is a waiting room, with the same ticket dispenser I saw at airport customs. Several people are seated waiting.
A second attendant comes out.
"Follow me," he says slowly. He sounds exasperated.
We do. He seats us in a comfortable but severe private room.
A doctor comes in carrying a tablet, closes the door.
He has a death's head icon on his hospital badge, and the word "Thanatosist."
He shakes his head.
"None of you need our assistance today." It is a statement not a question. "You shall not use photos or video of our clients in waiting." Not a statement but an order.
"I will tell you two things. Then you will leave and not return, to this or any other such facility. Unless of course it is your time.
"To get past me, or one of my colleagues, you must have a terminal diagnosis that has been confirmed by second opinion. The least I have ever made a person wait is three hours. She had Stage Four bone cancer and was on an expedite. Many people come back again and again for days. And then I often reject them. Not ready yet.
"We are all initiates of the mysteries of death. To go beyond this room is to accept this in one's heart.
"The mechanics of my task are easily searched on the Internet. Our media kit has photos and video including interviews with consenting patients and some who declined.
"It would be inappropriate and a gross violation of my oath to permit you any patient contact. So you shall follow me back to the gardens by one of several secret paths. Or I shall summon the police, which I have never done in three years of this work. But you are my first reporters."
I start to ask a question and he lifts a finger. Then he opens a different door and gestures us to it.
It is be chivvied out or make a huge public scene that will reach the Governor's ear.
Soon we are standing in the gardens again. As if casually, there is now a hospital police officer pretending to admire the grinning skull.
We therefore head to Chemotherapy.
in the interim, someone has discarded a rosary at the child statue's feet.
From reading the directory (before my involuntary escort to the psych ward) I had learned that Northern Medical City was organized on functional lines.
There were separate wards for foot and leg amputations. Also for hand and arm.
What caught my eye was the Cancer Complex. It had, as many such facilities do, extensive gardens to distract the people suffering.
It also had three statues, each guarding a path. The center path, beyond the gardens, led to a sunken garden. A weeping angel labeled "Angel of Grief." I read the plaque.
"This bronze was cast from a 3D printed image of the original at the decommissioned Stanford Hospital. For All Those We Have Lost."
The statue on the left was labeled "Not Yet."
It still gives me nightmares.
A large black stone is cantilevered over the rest of the piece, like a domino about to fall.
A child of indeterminate gender is barely propping up a piece of long rebar, as if to stop the stone. The angle is not yet right and even once it is, the contest between the child and the stone is clearly unfair.
Sprawled just behind the child is an injured pregnant woman, forever caught in a cry to the child.
A directions sign just beyond indicates "Chemotherapy."
The statue on the right is a grinning skull. Just the skull. It seems to invite, as if to a party. The title is almost hidden under the jaw. "Time"
I follow that path, which is not labeled.
It leads to a long low building.
Camera and guard follow me as I open the heavy bronze door. A carefully blank faced attendant wearing solid black, a severe suit, makes no move to help or to press the button on the handicap pedestal.
Beyond is a waiting room, with the same ticket dispenser I saw at airport customs. Several people are seated waiting.
A second attendant comes out.
"Follow me," he says slowly. He sounds exasperated.
We do. He seats us in a comfortable but severe private room.
A doctor comes in carrying a tablet, closes the door.
He has a death's head icon on his hospital badge, and the word "Thanatosist."
He shakes his head.
"None of you need our assistance today." It is a statement not a question. "You shall not use photos or video of our clients in waiting." Not a statement but an order.
"I will tell you two things. Then you will leave and not return, to this or any other such facility. Unless of course it is your time.
"To get past me, or one of my colleagues, you must have a terminal diagnosis that has been confirmed by second opinion. The least I have ever made a person wait is three hours. She had Stage Four bone cancer and was on an expedite. Many people come back again and again for days. And then I often reject them. Not ready yet.
"We are all initiates of the mysteries of death. To go beyond this room is to accept this in one's heart.
"The mechanics of my task are easily searched on the Internet. Our media kit has photos and video including interviews with consenting patients and some who declined.
"It would be inappropriate and a gross violation of my oath to permit you any patient contact. So you shall follow me back to the gardens by one of several secret paths. Or I shall summon the police, which I have never done in three years of this work. But you are my first reporters."
I start to ask a question and he lifts a finger. Then he opens a different door and gestures us to it.
It is be chivvied out or make a huge public scene that will reach the Governor's ear.
Soon we are standing in the gardens again. As if casually, there is now a hospital police officer pretending to admire the grinning skull.
We therefore head to Chemotherapy.
in the interim, someone has discarded a rosary at the child statue's feet.
