Part 122 Angel


The pain medicine is easing its grip, and all the crazy thoughts that it induces are slowly fading as well. But traces still linger, although I am getting blessed relief from being wheeled out of the miserable ICU. I have never had a worse experience in my life, and even now I feel a lingering horror from its memory. I am rolled into a room somewhere on another floor.

I am greeted in my private room by a youthful, pretty nurse named Tia, who hails from the Philippines. She has the most compassionate and sympathetic countenance I have seen. She helps lift me onto my bed, as I experience a weakness in my body that I never have felt before. There is a soft glow in the room from a lamp in the corner. I am totally helpless to even roll over. Tia props me up and fluffs pillows under me, softly reassuring me that I am alright. I need this reassurance, because I honestly am not sure that I will survive any of this.

After I rest for several minutes, Tia asks me if I need to use the bathroom. I am profoundly constipated, and when I tell her this, she brings in a portable commode. She helps get me out of the bed and on to this contraption, then leaves me in privacy. Somehow I manage to relieve myself in what seems to be the equivalent of at least four bathroom runs. When I am finished, I push the button to signal for her return. I am embarrassed but too relieved and still woozy to really care that much.

I beg for something to moisten this parched throat, but of course am told that is not possible. They will keep me sufficiently lubricated with IV fluids instead. Tia laughs about something, and sings a line from a TV theme song on a show her young daughter watches. She dances side to side as she sings, and I smile.

Tia leaves me to rest. My mind is troubled still, though. I hear faint music. At first it is interesting, this repetitive line going through my head. Middle Eastern melody. Maybe India? Or is it Arabic? Yes, that’s more it. The progression continues, and I am finding it less intriguing and pleasant, and more unsettling. I look across the room but see no source for it. I realize it must be coming from outside, in the streets. I lie back and shut my eyes, but the sounds continue. It is a chanting of some kind, but the words, if there are any, are foreign to me. I am suddenly struck by the fear that they are a battle cry, a call to arms.

Tia returns to check on me, with a male assistant. I ask if anyone hears the music. The male looks at me, grins briefly, and remarks, “there’s no music, man”. I ask Tia if she hears anything, but she shakes her head. They soon leave me alone again.

How can they not hear this? I strained my ears before, but now it seems to be coming with more intensity. I worry that this is the work of the Arabic man from the other room. He has arranged this and is planning to attack the hospital. Maybe set off a bomb.

The song continues. How do they get the radio station to keep playing it over and over? Maybe it’s from a CD. But the people will have synchronize all their machines to play it at exactly the same time. How are they doing this? They must be relentless and brilliant and highly organized. It is a powerful conspiracy.

I wonder if they have insiders in the hospital that are aiding them.

Why did Tia and her friend deny hearing this? Are they part of it too? Certainly not Tia. I can’t believe anyone that sweet could be part of this heartless plot.

I try to sleep. I am exhausted from my ordeal. I need to sleep. But I lie waiting, for some piercing sound, some explosion to rip through. I doze off. I wake up. I doze. Wake. My eyes close.

I sleep.