Lawrence Hall
Hospital Waiting
Room in Advent
“How could I
bear a crown of gold when the Lord bears a crown of thorns? And bears it for
me!”
-Heilige Elisabeth von Thuringen
The pre-dawn parking-lot is crowded enough, and almost
pretty with the high orange-ish light reflecting nicely on the rainy pavement.
The cold wind blows a lonely paper cup along among the puddles and the cars
with the more-than-one-family-members dozing or reading their MePhones. It
seems as if the world itself is a waiting room for now.
In the lobby a queue forms, everyone standing six feet
away from each other as ordered by plastic signs on the floors. A
cheerful-enough volunteer aims a little plastic gun at each human head as it
passes, and asks each owner of a head DO YOU HAVE ANY SYMPTOMS DO YOU HAVE A
SORE THROAT HAVE YOU BEEN AROUND ANYONE WITH THE CORONAVIRUS HAVE YOU BEEN OUT
OF STATE RECENTLY
Does Louisiana count?
Pass, friend.
A cold and fashionable Christmas tree obscures an image
of Saint Elizabeth of Thuringen next to the row of elevators marked ‘B’ along a
covid-silent corridor. She ministers to
the poor and ill as she always has, and the medical and support staffs of the
hospital do the same, under her support and patronage.
A visitor with his mask and his pass can hear his footsteps
echoing-echoing as he passes through the silences, and read signs announcing
activities scheduled long ago that were canceled long ago because of the
lockdowns. Only rarely will he see a masked and gowned figure seemingly scuttling
into hiding while carrying a tray of lab specimens or pushing a cart or whispering
into an official glowing screen.
Doors that used to be open are secured with NO ENTRY or
STAFF ONLY signs, and former passages are blocked with new plywood panels or
panes of clear plastic in this unclear time.
The cardiovascular ICU waiting room is empty – ONE FAMILY
MEMBER ONLY, reads a sign scotch-taped to a door, and NO COFFEE BECAUSE OF THE
CORONAVIRUS YOU WILL FIND COFFEE IN THE CAFETERIA announces another. Some seats
are marked off-limits with yellow crime-scene-ish tape even though there is no
one in the room to be made off-limits. The television is dark and silent, the
floors and plastic chairs are clean-upon-clean from repeated daily wipings and
scrubbings and sprayings although almost no one ever goes to that room now.
There are no people, no magazines, no bottles of water, nothing in the litter
baskets. It’s like a scene from one of those Star Trek episodes in which
an away-team beams down to a deserted space ship, a deserted city, or a
deserted planet, only there is no thematic background music in the hospital.
This is the block of floors and space given over the
cardiac care and surgery; the areas where CV patients are treated are hidden
behind doors and walls and faces of appropriate secrecy and discretion.
Behind those doors and walls life and death are worked
out through the work and thought and education and brilliance and industry of
so very many health care workers, from physicians to the nice fellow with the
bucket and mop, and through the mysteries of God and His saints.
As for our visitor, he can do nothing but take a seat –
one without the yellow crime-scene-ish tape – and wait in silent prayer for one
he loves.
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