The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine

Food for Thoughts

Aleksandra Ogrodnik
aogrodnik@wesleyan.edu

Light blue jackets of volunteers, four heads crowned with silver, smiles still coloring their strong faces.

Colorful scrubs of nurses, emblazoned with hearts, caring words, and flowers.

Surgeons with white caps, a beeper call away, a short respite from fevered work and fevered patients.

And patients’ visitors in regular clothes, enduring, glad that something ended, painfully aware that something is about to begin.

In groups of four huddled in confidence, lone at a small table, or a noisy dozen crowding at a larger one.

An ongoing white noise, as white as the walls, but not as sterile. Laughter exists here, between the clanking of plates and utensils, vying for attention with the voices. All speak, some listen and answer back. It is an un-orchestrated symphony, the violins with the pianos, the trumpets with the cellos. A happy noise. A respite from the hushed concerns behind the white walls of the hospital.

But despite that incessant cheerful noise, despite the acerbic white walls, despite the desire for silence and a time to grieve alone, I do not leave.

In the open courtyard behind the cafeteria’s glass doors, all the noise suddenly stops as I close the door behind me. No noise but the low hum of far away machines.

The sun beats warmly on my cold hands, and the blue of the sky is limitless.

And finally alone with my sorrow, the pasta tastes too bland, the tea is too bitter, and the lemon pie too sour, without the warmth of company and its comforting conversations.

Published: October 24, 2006