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hospital, zombies

i'm still here at the hospital.
the electricity went out this morning as they were bringing the breakfast trays around.
the critical patients get most of the electricity from the generator. i wonder, being heartless as i am, what the point of that is. if i were in icu when the shit hit the fan, let me go. if i were just say, needing some suction for a chest tube, but was otherwise alright, i say, give me the juice. but the hippocratic oath and all... how could you make a decision such as that? you couldn't.
it should be comforting to be in the midst of medical personnel during this, but it isn't. it's like being at the eye of the storm. to hear the clamor downstairs as they start pouring into the e.r. to listen as the elderly, in their beds, moan in the darkened halls. to see the frustrated, i won't say panicked, faces of the nurses as they try their best to care for all of them. doctors struggling for answers.
how much blood do they have? should i offer them mine? A+ is all i have.
how much of the medicine do they have? which medicine do we need? do we have one for this?
how soon will i catch it? should i leave mom here? go home and find the kids? tell dave to come here? what if they won't let him in? what if he already has it? how long will it take once we do?
friday the 13th was my grandfather's lucky day. he enlisted in the army on a friday the 13th and he set foot back in the states on a friday the 13th after seeing a lot of action in the south pacific theater of WWII.
i hope papaw's luck holds out for me today.

edit 11:52am:
they aren't sick, the people in the e.r. they are ashen, sunken, slack faced, the moaning isn't the elderly in the hallways unless they've already... and the pounding downstairs, the constant pounding from the cold depths of the hospital, the ground floor near the e.r. the concrete shakes with it all the way up here on the 4th floor. they are in the morgue. they have it.
they aren't sick people.
they aren't people.
not anymore...

edit 3:38pm:
the hospital window isn't designed to open all the way. people like my ex-husband clean them on the outside while hanging on scaffolding, high as a kite in more ways than the obvious.
the blinds are between the panes of unbreakable glass. three handles at the bottom turn 90 degrees and the bottom of the window pulls out six inches. the sill is as wide. i am wider. and anyway, i have not rapelled in years. i have never rapelled six stories straight down.
mom was cold when she came from the o.r. yesterday and they had four blankets piled on her. there were two blankets in the room when we arrived. each blanket is five feet, give or take, in length. plus knot room, that doesn't get me to the ground.
mom can't pull herself out of bed, let alone scale a wall. she can't walk, let alone run. there are tubes and wires coming from her body in all directions. the chest tube into her pleural lining, pulling fluid out of her into a box with gentle suction. we could cut it. the pic line taped to her lat, just above the bony clavicle. the rn takes blood from it, so it's main lined and she'd bleed out. if we cut it, we'd have to tie it off somehow. another line goes to a unit of type A+ blood hanging on an iv tree with three pouches of antibiotics. the third line goes to a pca pump. a button in her non-dominant right hand controls the doses. at thirty second intervals, a certain number of ccs of pure morphine are available for her use. a pouch of that nirvana, that euphoria, resides inside the pump. i've looked it over. it's junkie proof. there's no way to outsmart it, get a bigger dose, get it all at once, get it over with.
she has the tv on. the speakers in her bed rails are muted, but we can hear what is happening outside through the window. it looks like a movie. i've seen this movie. i liked it from my cushy seat in the theater, under a large bag of buttery popcorn with my husband's strong hand holding mine. i wasn't scared.
mom has promised me that she will hit the button every thirty seconds until she passes out. i have promised her to take a bag of antibiotics from the hook above her and three cans of glucerna from the tray table. i don't think this arrangement will help either of us, really.
i don't know why they don't keep more useful items in a hospital room. i don't know what i can use. i did take the physical therapist's strap which was hanging on the wall. they belt it around the patient while they walk them down the hall, something to grab onto in case the patient falls. it has two big metal rings at one end. it reminds me of my blue yoga strap at home in the microfiber covered storage ottoman at the foot of my bed.
i am going to close the laptop, wrap it, put it in the bag. it is extra weight, but the battery isn't dead and it may be a valuable source of information or communication later. anyway, i can't just leave it. if i abandon it, i would be admitting that things have gone too far.
i am going to put my hand on that knob again, the one which vibrates with the chaos from the halls. i think that the metal should feel red hot like fire, like danger, but it doesn't. the smell coming in from under the door isn't smoke, but something like rotting meat.
i am going to close the laptop and open the door. i have no other choice. i have no other way out. i have no other way...

edit 8:17pm:
i didn't do it. i couldn't do it.
i am not the heroine in the movie. that role is for someone else.
thank whatever deity isn't home tonight that there aren't windows in these hospital room doors. i can hear them out there, the not dead yet, scratching and wailing and gnashing their teeth for some safety, sanctuary, solace. there is none here.
i pushed mom's bed up against the door. i'm not worried about the zombies. z can't figure out how to turn a door knob. i worry about the half-dead bitten morons who think that maybe just behind this one last door is the savior or at least something to latch onto. they don't know what they are looking for anymore than i know what i'm hiding from.
none of the outlets in the room work now and the laptop battery is on reserve.
the peaceful look on mom's face as she sleeps against this concrete wall, holding back the nightmares is the final contradiction, the last lie. or maybe it is the ultimate rebellion.
i will wait here, wait it out, wait to fight another day, wait for help, wait to expire as a direct result of my inaction, just wait, wait for the end of the world...

blog like it's the end of the world