“I saw him! Last night, the man on bed number 7 got up and walked around the room. He was looking for the way out, naked, bruised up and full of catheter holes, he was trying to open up the door. Until she woke up… She is supposed to stay awake and take care of us, but as soon as the doctors leave the room she becomes a snake and crawls to the nurses’ office to sleep. But he did too much noise. The screens went crazy as he tried to disconnect himself from the mechanical support. She ran into the room.
Number 7 is trying to escape! she yelled and rang the alarm. It took them less than a minute to put him down. They saw that I saw and they came close to my bed. I’ve been too long on this bed. I am paralyzed from all these narcotics they give me. I was not able to move, but she still hit me hard on the face and the belly. I haven’t felt so much pain since I gave birth to you… I am so happy I am out of there. But tell the poor man’s family what happened. I heard them say: Number 7 doesn’t co-operate, put him to sleep again.”
I didn’t know how to react to the story. One side of me wanted to laugh with the creative delirium of that sweet old woman that had just escaped the mean people of the ICU, another side of me wanted to believe that it was actually true. I would rather know that my father can actually wake up and walk, even if it means that he will get beaten up for that, than know that this might never happen again. I may never see him walk again. I may never hear his voice again. I may never be able to show him how much I love him, and how grateful I am to him for all that he has done for us.
No, I‘d rather buy the unbelievable story of the Prisoners in the ICU. There are some elements of truth after all. I have often heard the personnel referring to patients as numbers and wondered how this feels like to them, the patients - if of course they can listen. I have also seen them naked with just a light bed sheet on, scared, cold and all bruised up from the various blood tests and the catheters, and I have often faced the cold face of the people that have gotten used to death and the tears of the relatives.
I don’t blame them. How could one do this work anyway if they took it all in? How could you watch your patients suffer if you felt love for them?
What an oxymoron this is, the ones that serve humanity are doomed to not love it.
After 51 days in ICU, my father is still my father to me, not a number, not another doomed to die elder. I look at his half open left eye gazing the ceiling and watch the light coming out. He is still there, his soul is still hangin on to his tortured body like a bird is hangin onto a half broken branch.
Life is a delirium is my new mixed media art; part drawing, part photography, photosculpting and filtering.