hospital room - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
We finally reach the door, brown and dull like all the others, but I can already see people inside. "Well, here we are," the nurse smiles kindly and opens the door wider. Doctors and nurses surrounded his hospital bed, attaching IV's, heart monitors and oxygen tanks to him. I decide to explore the room while the other people are still crowded around him. An old TV set hangs from the ceiling. A window giving me a view of the world below was just beneath the screen. In the corner are two chairs, frayed with wear and tear. It was a typical hospital room, sparse and functional. I sat myself next to Nyx and stared dejectedly up at the ceiling.
The hospital room is as devoid of beauty as I am of hope. Its walls are simply cream, not peeling or dirty, just cream. There is no decoration at all save the limp curtain that can separate my bed from the three others in here. It was perhaps once the kind of green that reminds people of spring-time and hope, but it's faded so much that the hue is insipid. The room as an undertone of bleach and the floor is simply grey. At the far end are windows in brown metal frames, only openable at the top. Not a single person has flowers, cards or home brought food. They are sleeping to pass the time or staring at nothing at all. There are stands for intravenous drips and monitors. At the door are dispensers for rubber gloves, hand sanitizer and soap. These items only reinforce my fear of germs, they are so ubiquitous here that cleaning is mandatory every time a doorway is passed or a patient is touched. But maybe the nurses will forget, or not wash properly, then what? I get sicker?
Seeing the room Geo is to take I immediately understand why people take flowers to hospital rooms. Despite our technological lives there is something in our natures that requires natural beauty as part of the healing process. We aren't robots, we aren't "units" to be fixed; Geo isn't here for a quick oil and filter change. In their efforts not to offend they succeed in not inspiring or lifting the spirit. I know every place is on a budget but is a cheerier shade of paint really that much more?
For the first time in our lives we can afford to go private. I expected to be eaten up by guilt, knowing how bad the other system is. But being in this room is like walking into an expensive New York coffee shop. There are flowers, beautiful paintings, leather chairs and soft music. On the wall is a plasma screen and the bed looks so comfortable. Just one foot in the door and I'm as relaxed as I would be in a hotel.
The hospital room is a concrete pen with a window the size of a biscuit tin lid. It has a stagnant smell, like it's cleaned with plain water instead of disinfectant. The bed sits low to the ground, the frame baring the signs of rust and the mattress worryingly thin. Keller bites his lip. Leaving isn't an option and staying promises to be a slowly unfolding nightmare. Before he even makes it to the bed a song begins to play softly in his head..."Welcome to the Hotel California..."
Eight beds, even patients, Parker shuffles toward what must be his. Already his mind drifts back to his uncluttered home, everything pale with clean lines, elegant and calming. Home, where he can draw the blinds and pour his favourite spirit, listen to soft Jazz and browse the recordings he has't yet seen. Here he is a unit in an institution, a bed number, a problem to be fixed on the world's slowest moving assembly line. He lets his hand fall to the cotton sheets, clean, stiff, functional. It is a place to lie and not a bed. "Bed" means soft sheets with a lavender perfume"; it means somewhere he feels as safe as a bear in his winter den; it means comfort and privacy. This room as nothing of those things and so he mentally labels it a "trolley" instead, after all, it does have wheels and collapsable sides.
The hospital room is more like a garden, how much things have changed in the past thirty years. The roof is clear giving an impression of being outside and once in a while a butterfly will alight on a nearby leaf. The beds are still metal underneath, but technology has come so far. To the touch and to the eye they appear to be bamboo, warm and rustic. There was so much talk of expense when the first pilot hospital did this, but the results speak for themselves. Stays are shorter, healing faster, depression negligible. Turns out we're animals after all and our "habitat" matters, that our mental and physical health are too intertwined to separate.
To the council it just made sense to turn the old gaol into a psychiatric hospital. I guess it must have felt right to them, after all, the "crazy" need to be locked up just the same as the criminals. The effect was catastrophic. They brought in the fragile psychotics, the beleaguered schizophrenics, and threw them in the old holding cells. Every room was a mattress, a bucket and iron bars. The place was draughty as hell and the stone floors stole every lick of heat from the patient's bare feet. They stood shivering in their hospital gowns, their minds actively constructing new dialogues to cope with the hostile environment...
I lay there quietly, keeping my eyes closed, matching my breaths to the beeping of the machines that surrounded the bed, the only indications of my heartbeat, my existence. My legs were numb. Curiosity slowly pried open my swollen eyes to meet a dismal view of a magnolia colored hospital room, the door a navy blue. I immediately knew it was locked, this was to keep me in here, not them out. I slid my eyes sideways, they'd handcuffed my wrists to the bed bars. Short, but plenty deep cuts ran along my arms, beyond was my chart.
Admittance: 3:27 am
Cause of Admittance: A danger to self, others