It's Not Me, It's Everyone Else

I spent most of yesterday in the emergency room. I was not sure I belonged there. As it turned out, I didn't. It seemed that other people had the same angst.

Within the ER, the rooms were all full. I was told I would "start" out in the hall. (Seven hours later, I was still in the hall.) I was okay with that as long as they didn't make me strip and put on the gown lying there on the stretcher.

I busied myself with my newspaper and Sudoku puzzles.

From time to time, a woman came out of a room next to me and slid a curtain between me and her door out of the way to stare at me, then snapped it back in place. She was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, pretty, and sad. Hospital personnel could be heard telling her to go back into her room. Apparently, she wanted the hall. I would have gladly traded her. But then they might have stopped referring to me as "the dissection" and put me in the psych ward.

One time when she was wandering and someone told her to go back to her room, she asked, "So, am I just supposed to f-ing sit there and f-ing worry?"

"Yes."

After a while, the woman started lobbying on her excursions out to use the phone. "I should get to make at least one phone call," she asserted. "It's inhumane what you're doing to me."

"This is the ER," she was told.

When that didn't work, she tried, "I really have to find out what happened to my son."

"I have to ask your nurse," one guy told her, three times. The last time, he added, "If he says it's okay, then I'm all for it. I'm looking for your nurse right now."

"Do I have one?"

"Yes. His name's Russell." He walked off again.

Another man walked down the hall past her door. "Are you Russell?" she asked.

"No, I'm not."

After a few not-Russells came by, she got to make her phone call.

Unfortunately, the phone was right behind my head.

First, she called her mother. I wasn't trying to listen, but she was standing right over me. "I hate my sister," she announced, first off. "Do you know what she DID to me?" Then, "Fine, don't *#$@! believe me." A torrent of thirty more of these bad words followed, then she was on to the next call.

"Hi, Christina, I want to thank you for what you did to me," she said in a soft voice. Then, slightly more insistently, "I want to thank you for what you *#$@! did to me. I *#$@! appreciate it! You're out of my *#$@! life. Don't *#$@! call me again. *#$@! ever!"

I had to wonder what it would be like to receive that phone call.

Third call: "Jordan? When I get *#$@! home, you'd better be *#$@! out of my house! You *#$@! went too *#$@! far this time."

(Not one word about any son.)

Having triumphantly rid herself of everyone closest to her, she not only went into her room, but slammed her door. That showed all of them and us, too, I guess.

I only hoped she wouldn't make any more phone calls. I started asking every male who passed by if he were Russell so I could place that request. Just kidding.

It was clear to me and the hospital staff--and her family and boyfriend--that this woman was not in her right mind, either from something she took or just because. But I think she thought she was doing fine.

It made me reflect on how little we can see ourselves as others see us. God made us so that we cannot see our own faces without outside assistance. We can see our hands and most other body parts, but we cannot see our own faces. I remember being quite struck by this fact as a small child. Then, relying on mirrors, I forgot about how weird I thought that was. Maybe it's to help keep us humble. Maybe it's so we'll have to learn to rely on others to help us get an accurate picture of ourselves.

I'm sure her family and friends were trying to help this woman. I hope when she comes down (or up), she will be able to see that, and get a glimpse of her true self.

I hope I can, too.