The rumble of the distant storm woke me up. The lighting flashes outlined the objects in the room. From my bed I could see the nurses station, a small closet, a drawer, and a sofa bed. There were also the IV pump and a commode.
I was laying on my left side, facing east. The wall was entirely made out of glass, and I had a privileged view of Lake Michigan battling against the elements, zigzagging energy over a dark backdrop. “It may be raining in Michigan.” I said to the wolf.
Disconcertingly, a mundane, familiar, feeling came from my insides. I grabbed the bed rail to incorporate but my arms didn’t respond. I tried to help myself with my legs, but they were just tired and flaccid. This is too much…
The wolf knew it and it came closer to me.
I had to let it go, and for the first time since I was a baby, I soiled the bed. The poisonous power of the chemotherapy was devastating everything in its path.
Surprise, shame, disorientation, shame, loneliness, shame. What to do? Finally, I came to terms with myself, and I called the nurses.
There was a ruffling of scrubs in the changing room. Brights lights on.
“You’re fine. You’re doing so well” said efficient voices in yellow gowns behind the masks.
“Could you turn to your right?” one nurse would say, while cleaning me. “Now to your left?”, another voice, and more cleaning, more moving, new sheets.
Finally, everything is done, even temperature and pressure taken. “Maria will stay with you for a while” said one nurse and turned off the lights.
It was dark again, and Maria sat on my bedside holding my hand. She was very young, and her small hand felt warm and soft on mine. “How do you feel?” she asked.
I told her about the shame of soiling the bed and having strangers cleaning me. And then she spoke to me in such a compassionate and understanding way that it seemed to me that Maria was much older than her looks. Her words were gentle and carried a certain ancestral knowledge of the human soul. As she spoke, a soothing sensation came over me.
“Are you from Argentina?” she said.
“Yes. How do you know?”
“The accent.” She said, “I like your accent.”
“Where is your family from?” I asked her.
“From Guatemala.” she whispered to the lake.
And with that, we continued contemplating the sky in silence, enjoying some deep but unexpected communion, until I fell asleep.
Outside a ravaging storm over Lake Michigan, inside a peaceful hospital room.