Free Verse
Pavarotti on
the Ward
As a first-timer,
the surreality of life in the hospital was not lost on me. I had
managed to go 57 years without a single overnight stay (with the
exception of my debut back in Lafayette, Indiana in the winter
of 1951). Now here I was flat on my back in a ward with three
other men, contemplating the nature of existence, my future and
what was coming next.
I had come to this ‘house of healing’ via a long road of bad
decisions, most recently my choosing to ignore a festering wound
on my heel, thinking it would somehow magically heal, like all
my other injuries had done in the past.
In my defense, I have to say that the soaring cost of health
care and medical insurance had upped the ante on my ending up
here in this Orthopedic/Diabetic ward. I had a phobia about
doctors that I had gotten when I was about four years
old…something about too much adrenalin and a seizure in the
doctor’s office. It spawned a lifelong fear of doctors and where
they worked. Fears such as these, if not conquered, must be
assuaged eventually because, like it or not, as one gets older,
the need for doctors increases.
I might add that my few experiences with doctors over the past
15 years or so have been unpleasant enough to make me want to
limit my exposure to them to as little as possible. All I want
is to be treated with a little respect, but all I ever seem to
get is their disdain. And since I haven’t been tamed or really
broken in by the socializing forces of law and medicine, I’d
just as soon go back to my wild ways and take my chances than
submit to the poking and prodding of “modern” medicine.
That said, I found myself stripped of dignity, as well as my
clothes, lying on a gurney being transported from one
overcrowded hospital to another one rainy night in late
November. It was just before Thanksgiving and I wondered if I’d
have much to give thanks for this year – the admitting doctor
had suggested that it was 50-50 on whether they’d let me keep my
foot or take it in a to-go bag, a nice souvenir to put on the
mantle. This opinion was repeated by my “primary” doctor at the
County hospital, my new home for the next few weeks. I saw him
twice, my primary doctor, and both times he had only bad news
for me.
They say that healing is about 75% attitude and 25% science.
What they don’t tell you is that of that 75% I’d say about 50%
is spite…I was going to get better just to prove that doctor
wrong. He was ready to write me off, but I would have nothing to
do with that nonsense.
One thing about being in a hospital is the sheer weight of hour
upon hour of boredom, punctuated by moments of panic, fear and
agony. It is like an opera: all the boring bits that make up the
meat of the story with the arias thrown in to let you know that
something important is happening – those exquisite moments when
the music wells up and the fat lady belts one out of the park. I
admit it; I’m a sucker for musical passion. I get goose-bumps on
my goose-bumps whenever I hear the human voice heading for the
rafters. It’s a moment to be savored.
Let’s face it; there aren’t many opportunities in everyday life
to experience passion…except via the cult of violence which
seems to grip parts of our world now and then. But that passion
leaves a mess that is hard to clean up unlike opera which only
requires a scene change and an intermission.
But I digress.
One night on the ward, about halfway into my visit I was surfing
the channels searching for something to distract me from the
‘circus’ – this is what I’d come to call the ward. My roommates,
two Hispanic fellows, who spoke little or no English and a
Somalian, who was under 24/7 watch by a rotating shift of
Detention Dept. guards in 8 hour shifts, were all enjoying
different shows on their respective TVs. It was a cacophony of
Get Smart, Telemundo and Soccer. The guards were laughing at
Agent 86 and asking the Somalian questions which he wouldn’t
answer even if he could…it seems they were locked in a game of
cat and mouse. I never was sure why they were guarding him, they
never would say.
Anyway, I was searching for my own particular soundtrack for
that night, when I came across a show on PBS about the life of
Luciano Pavarotti, the famous Tenor. It featured several of his
most famous performances interspersed with biographical details.
I thought what the hell, and tuned it in, turning up the sound
just enough to drown out the other noise somewhat.
At some point one of the nurses came in to change my IV. Her
supervisor poked her head in for a moment to see how I was doing
and when she heard Pavarotti singing she looked at me
incredulously and said, “You like Pavarotti?”
I could tell she was thinking that I looked like I would be more
at home breaking a pool cue over some galoot’s head in a bar
with Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” blaring out of the jukebox
and, believe me, I have been in that bar before (minus the pool
cue). But in that circumstance I might have preferred to hear La
Boheme after Journey or Motorhead.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m a multi-faceted guy…I even write poetry.”
She seemed impressed. Maybe it was the fact that I would admit
to something as girly as poetry to her. It didn’t matter. It was
the first time that I got beyond the boundary of professionalism
that all the staff must wear like a mask, like a clown with a
painted smile. I was always Mr. Armstrong, whether I was
writhing in pain, or looking up from a crossword puzzle. But for
just a few moments we were a step or two closer. Then it was
back to Mr. Armstrong, patient and poet.
She asked me to make up a poem on the spot, laughing when I
couldn’t. I told her that I didn’t work that way, but that I
would write her one before I left. This is what I wrote; though
it is slightly revised (I think it captures what that moment
meant to me):
Pavarotti on
the Ward
It’s impossible
This circus of noise
I’ve been living in chaos for days
Blaring TVs
Broken English
Screams at 3 AM
A litany of fear and anger
Interspersed with hour upon hour
Of mind-numbing boredom
I am terrified behind
A mask of complacency
Taking it all in
This crazy world
To which I am
A new citizen
Taking it one step at a time
With no respite
Until one night
When the voice of
Pavarotti fills the ward
Drowning out Get Smart reruns
And Telemundo soccer news
Cradling me like a
Mother’s loving arms
Rocking me to sleep
While my nurse tucks me in
And I dream of sugar-free lollypops
Dancing around my head
Raindog
