Room 909

It was Friday afternoon at the end of a long work week and I was finishing up at the hospital documenting my last encounter of the day.  The beeping sounds coming from a bank of monitors at the nurse's station were distracting me, causing me to type and retype words to the point I wanted to start pulling plugs.  Worse yet, the nurses were starting to change shifts and multiple conversations were beginning to buzz about like pesky mosquitoes in my ear which no amount of swatting could silence. 

When I clamped my hands over my ears in frustration a nurse playfully slapped me on the back, "Are we bugging you Dr. Monk?"  I wanted to say something witty and biting but just gave a good-natured smile and nodded my head instead.  Many were simply passing on the gossip of the day, but at least one pair was actually discussing patient care.  It was from this conscientious couple that I heard the name "Roy" mentioned and it caught my attention. 

I think it must have been the way she said it.  It's not something I can explain now in retrospect, but it caught hold of me in some way.  My grandpa's name was Roy but we called him "Poppy".  He died well before any of my children were born and even before I was married 15 years ago.  I paused in writing my note and tried to tune into their conversation a little better by closing my eyes and bowing my head.  

"Are you praying we'll go away Dr. Monk?" the same nurse snorted.  I seriously wanted to strangle her but once again I just gave her a goofy grin with clinched teeth hidden behind closed lips. 

The last snatch of conversation I was able to hear mentioned room 909.  I made mental note of it and finished up my work.  I looked at my watch and was pleased to find it was just shy of 4 pm which meant my weekend was starting earlier than usual.  Pushing my chair back from the computer the name "Roy" squeezed its way back into my conscious awareness again.

Room 909 was at the end of an adjacent hallway, single occupancy, and I seemed to recall that it had a nice view of the eastern half of the city.  On a whim I pulled my chair back up to the computer, logged back in, and did a patient search using the 9th floor as my search criteria.  I scrolled down to 909 and then scanned over to the patient's name.  At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.  It appeared to be the name of my grandpa, even down to the correct middle initial.

A twisting sensation began to take hold of my stomach and I felt my connection with reality thinning a bit, like a tether had pulled tight and was threatening to snap.  My eyes pierced the screen looking through the name plainly sitting there, trying to understand its origin, to glean its secrets.  I closed my eyes and rubbed them vigorously but after the flash bulbs subsided I was still looking at the same name.

Trying not to get too freaked out I reasoned that there could be more than one person in the world with the same name.  But that middle initial carried with it some portent that I couldn't get past.  I knew one thing for sure.  There was no way I was leaving the hospital without visiting room 909.  

***

Walking that long hallway brought back a particular memory of Poppy, a man who loved steam locomotives and long walks.  On his 70th birthday he challenged himself by walking six miles on the railroad tracks through the country to an old abandoned train trestle and then six miles back.  Oddly enough I have the worn out leather boots he wore that day in the back of my closet.  I imagined myself walking beside him, an invisible visitor from the future, hearing the birds sing and watching critters scurry along the forest floor, even seeing them cross the tracks at a respectful distance.  He could have had a stroke or heart attack or even tripped and broke an ankle with no one around for miles to help, but he was fiercely independent and would have had it no other way.

Another memory was jarred loose as I passed a homeless man in a hospital gown sitting in a chair in the hallway.  He'd probably been admitted after being found unconscious on the city streets which was a common occurrence at this inner city hospital.  His raggedy and unkempt appearance reminded me of stories Poppy would tell about riding the rails when he was a young man.  It was the Great Depression and he traveled throughout the western United States from his home in Ohio by catching rides on boxcars.  I guess you could say he was a hobo, or at least played the part for a time. 

He liked to explain that he always had two belts during that time, one he wore around his waist and one looped through that one and the catwalk to keep him from falling off if he fell asleep.  He traveled with a friend working odd jobs for food and shelter, sleeping in barns and whatnot.  I remember him sharing a story about the time a man paid them to do some work for him and then invited them in to have dinner with the family around the table.  He assured me that the Great Depression was the greatest time in the history of this country because people “looked out for one another”.

Rounding the corner to the next hallway I passed two physical therapists standing on either side of an elderly patient with the shuffling gate and blank stare of advanced dementia.  Again my mind wandered back to a time when I visited Poppy in the nursing home after he'd begun to develop dementia.  He liked to sit near the nurse's station and watch people come and go.  I'd bring my physics and organic chemistry textbooks with me in the evening hours and sit with him doing homework.  There was some occasional small talk and he liked to share the random fact, but mostly we just sat together in silence while I tried to chase electrons through a chain of organic molecules.

During one particularly dark time he had become overmedicated to the point he had an acute decline in his functioning.  Within a few week's time he went from wearing buttoned shirts, slacks, and shoes to baggy sweats and slippers.  He made no effort to communicate and had a hard time lifting his feet to walk.  Something was definitely wrong and my parents made their concerns known to the head nurse who passed it on to the doctor who eventually stopped the offending medication.  Poppy came back to something a little more resembling normal after that, but it was during this period of rapid decline that I hatched a plan to get him down to a railway museum a few towns south of us that included a train ride.  I figured it couldn't hurt and it might do him some good.

I recruited a friend from college to help and we wheeled him out to my car.  He was very difficult to transfer from the wheelchair into the car but we managed it somehow and threw the collapsed wheelchair into the trunk after buckling him into the front seat.  He said nothing on the trip down.  At the railway museum we got him up the high steps into the train with some effort and seated him between us to keep him steady. 

The train whistle gave a  shrill burst and it was like someone flipped a switch.  Poppy sat up straighter and his eyes became more focused.  "That whistle is the conductor's way of letting the engineer know the train is ready to move," he said in a clear voice.  He then went on to explain what the  different number of whistles meant as well as some other information pertinent to running a passenger train.  This was the first time he'd spoken since we'd picked him up from the nursing home.

***

I straightened up and became more focused myself as I approached room 909.  It seemed strange that there were no nurses around, but it was shift change after all.  I suddenly felt terribly alone.  The cold sterility of my surroundings began to transform into a kind of physical sensation.  It was all very melodramatic and I was sure to be disappointed but I felt compelled to see it through.  I flattened out my palm on the door of room 909 and leaned into it with my head down.  "Count to three" I heard myself say.  "When the person who is not really my long dead grandpa sees me I'll just apologize and say I've got the wrong room.  But if it's Poppy... Lord have mercy."

My hand grabbed the door handle and on the count of three I pushed it down, gave a push, and let it swing open on its own.  Despite it being an overcast winter day, the room was awash in a warm glow.  Dust motes flashed in the rays of the sun slanting down through the windows like lazy sparks floating in the air.  The room appeared empty.  I walked in and gave my eyes some time to adjust.  I became aware of a figure sitting in the corner of the room looking out a large  window which stretched to the ceiling as well as the width of the room.  I once again became aware of a sensation like being untethered from reality. 

The figure was an elderly gray-haired man who appeared dressed to leave the hospital.  His back was to me and he was sitting on the edge of the bed leaning slightly forward with his hands on his knees gazing out the window expectantly.  As silly as it sounds I felt as if I were floating above the scene in one of those near death experiences.  I noticed he was wearing a worn brown corduroy overcoat with a dusting of dandruff on the shoulders like a sprinkling of snow on a freshly plowed field.  A plaid fedora was perched on his head with a tattered feather poking out from the band.  These were unmistakable parts of Poppy's limited wardrobe. 

At this point all thoughts of introducing myself and trying to normalize the situation was completely gone.  There was no protocol that I knew of to handle this kind of situation.  I kept a respectable distance as I came up beside him and stood still.  The brim of his hat covered his eyes in shadow but his large nose protruded out into the light.  All doubts completely evaporated when I saw the large single hair growing out from the bridge of his nose, a misplaced follicle that had always intrigued me by its location and isolation.  I had no idea what to do or say so I looked out the window to see what he might be looking at.

***

It shouldn't have surprised me at that point but I was surprised nonetheless to find I was not looking out over the city, but over an expanse of rolling mountains covered with trees as far as the eye could see.  It appeared to be summer and devoid of signs of human habitation.  I detected the slightest bit of movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to see that Poppy's mouth had formed into a smile.  I looked back to those ancient mountains and noticed a break in the uniform green texture.  It looked to be a white line forming around a mountain bend to our extreme left, a line that was lifting up off the ground as it grew, losing its shape as it went.  I leaned in towards the window and placed my hands on the window sill to steady myself.  I squinted to see the growing object more clearly and a glint of sunshine flashed off its side.  As it drew closer it became clear to me why Poppy had smiled.  It was a tremendous steam locomotive belching great clouds of smoke.  It appeared to be following an arc that had us alongside its trajectory.  Glancing down I saw that a platform extended from the other side of the window to a set of railroad tracks.

Poppy reached down to grasp something I could not see beside the bed.  He held it firmly without taking his eyes off of the approaching train.  I once again thought to say something fearing that if I waited too long I would lose my chance.  But there was something sacred about that silence.  Somewhere deep inside I knew that speaking would shatter this vision into a million dream shards and my heart with it.

Poppy stood up with a battered carpetbag firmly in hand.  The movement was so sudden it startled me.  He reached forward and wrapped his large hand around an ornate doorknob that I had not noticed before.  I looked out to the platform which had disappeared in a great cloud of steam and in that moment I heard the door knob click.  Poppy stepped through the door and disappeared.  In a panic I lurched for the door to keep it from shutting.  The next thing I knew I was standing alone in an impenetrable fog.  I was so overcome with emotion that tears began to flow from my eyes.

"Poppy, please," I sobbed, my hands covering my face.

The cloud of steam dissipated and I felt the sun warming the backs of my hands.  When I lowered them he was standing directly in front of me with the sun at his back making it almost painful to gaze at him.  The locomotive was resting at our side pulsing with a fearsome energy, like some great panting beast.  Poppy sat down his carpetbag and embraced me.  An exchange occurred that was a kind of communion, as true a communication as there can be with no words spoken or needing to be spoken.  A whistle from the train blew sharp and loud.  The scene around me was drawn up like a snatched cloth and I once again found myself standing in room 909 looking out on a bleak winter cityscape.

***

"Are you OK Dr. Monk?" a voice behind me asked.

I turned to find a nurse standing in the doorway.  I was still dazed from what had just happened and didn't answer right away but I immediately recognized her as the nurse that I had found so annoying earlier.

"I followed you when I saw you going into an empty room.  I thought maybe you got your room numbers mixed up."

I finally managed to say, "Thanks for looking out for me... I'm sorry, what is your name?"

"Becky.”

"Thank you, Becky.  I was looking for someone who is not here anymore."

"Was he discharged?" she asked. 

"You could say that.  I think he's headed home."

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