Hospital

Maggie is in a green sleeping gown open at the back. She wears some kind of washed out white robe with tiny faded blue flowers over it. She sits in the chair next to me, but she is restless. Every time a door opens her head jerks. When no one calls her name, she keeps fidgeting for a while. As soon as she finally settles in the comfortable position, the door opens again.
I ask how is she doing - an unnecessary question, for every atom of her body exhibits nervous anticipation. She manages a smile. Fine, she says. Unconvincing.
A minute later she nudges her head against my chest. Her eyes are huge.
I'm scared, she says. I smile, hoping it looks encouraging.
Don't worry it's going to be OK, I say. Such a cliche! My brain is not capable of anything better. What would I give to be able to swap places with her, to be the one in the open surgical hospital gown, wide-eyed with fear. She looks so small and fragile. I feel big and useless, incapable to protect her.
The door opens again, the head jerks again. This time with the reason - it's her name the nurse calls. Maggie shuffles in, I follow. The nurse gives us a rundown of the procedure and takes Maggie into surgery. I go back to the waiting room, where other husbands try to kill time until wives awake from anesthesia. The air is thick with worry.
I try to read a book, but my mind is with Maggie. I stare at the same page for over an hour, until the nurse taps me on the shoulder. She's awake, the nurse says.
Maggie is on a wheeled bed in a room which looks like a giant parking lot for wheeled beds. It is divided by green curtains into many tiny partitions. In each there's place for a bed, a chair and not much else.
I squeeze into Maggie's partition. Her eyes are partly open, she tries a smile. Her lips are dessicated, her face a few shades lighter green than her gown. There's an IV in the back of her hand. Even in this minute space she looks tiny. So small, I wish I can scoop her into my arms and carry her home.
Slowly, her speech becomes less slurred, her responses are quicker. The nurse gives her OK to change. There is a bloody bed-sheet, quickly taken away. Last quick instructions recited by the nurse, obviously repeated so many times it sounds impersonal, almost robotic. We nod. Maggie pays attention, I just wish she'd never need to go through this again. Strange how you need to get hurt to get better.
The nurse rolls Maggie out in a wheelchair while I get the car. The moment we left the hospital parking, Maggie comes alive. She is thirsty, she says. And ravenous, she adds. Let's go somewhere to eat.
Maybe it'll all be good, after all. I do my best to expunge the bloody sheet from memory and manage a smile. A real smile. Yeah, let's go to eat and let's go home!