Hospital visit.

It is a sorry sight, but it can't be avoided. The sights & sounds of a hospital...

A few minutes past 7 o'clock. General Hospital. Block 4. Me and Dad were alone in the elevator ascending to the 8th storey (wards and more wards).

"What is rehabilation... Is it for those drug-addicts?" Dad posed a question about the 4th floor.

Yes, I nodded. Clearly, I wasn't sure. But that answer got rid of the question.

We stepped out from the lift into a cold white corridor. A trace scent of disinfectant. Lugging along my backpack as usual, I followed in my father's footsteps as he turned around a corner to the wards on the right. We walked through this corridor, passing a sort of waiting room and reception at the end, and turned again to the right. Then we countered the third corridor with a left turn. Walls on both sides, like a maze. Glancing at signposts for a matter of guidance... and we eventually got there.

The ward was a room shrouded in dim lighting (it being the time of evening) with 4 hospital beds and a set of curtains lodged in-between each pair of beds. These were found on both sides of the room - blocking the view of the adjacent bed a patient would see when she rolled onto one side. For my Grandma, she sees the patient in the opposite bed, an elderly patient. Muslim, apparently, because she wore a black headscarf. In fact, the ward was full of old people. All on their backs, lying on the bed.

My aunt, lets-name-her Kim, was already stationed there to help Grandma, a tuft of white and grey hair sitting atop her hazel brown face, creased with wrinkles. Grandma didn't look happy. At the foot of her bed, was food uneaten, still left intact on the table. She saw us arriving, but otherwise, she was looking at the TV hanging from the ceiling at the corner of the bed. What was I going to say? My head was on a roll, grinding my preformed thoughts into fine quality thread...

Whereupon, came the usual exchange of words between family. I contributed a little. Most regrettably, I have never had the knack of successfully learning Teochew speaking dialect, hence, I have difficulty understanding what my Grandma was saying to me. As usual, the grown-ups did all the talking. I stared at the TV, and recalled a passage in 'Brave New World', where all she did was just sat there, watching the TV.

The nurse (trainee) came in. A silver timepiece hanging from her shirt pocket caught my eye, above which read her nametag. She made graceful and precise movements and did whatever she was doing. I realised she must have mastery over the Teochew dialect, for she knew how to speak.

Up till then, I was hearing a continuous croaking sound coming from the adjacent bed. I peeped, to see her mouth gaping slightly open and to confirm it as the source of the sounds. She was a stroke patient, aged 92. That's all I know, but I can't help feeling sorry for her.

My father asked me 'why'? Why was Grandma getting confused or forgetful about where she was (in hospital instead of her house). I mentioned that, of course, the brain cells are not as abundant as before, and are not replenished as fast as they are destroyed. Alternatively, but more unlikely, it might be self-denial, that her health has declined from before. I can't believe how strongly I believed in my answer to be correct. But these things, they have been around for so long, and its implications to human-life were after all essential. I answer, perhaps emotionless, in cold-blood. Maybe it was because Grandma and I weren't very close, with nothing to talk about, and difficult to talk to each other, attributing to my lack of affection.

Grandma was afflicted by a malicious virus lately. Details were not disclosed to me. But it was definitely causing trouble.

I read the plastic sachet or what they call IV drip. IV KCL. Intravenous Potassium Chloride to aid in electrolyte balance. (O... now I missed the point of this entry. Just making an attempt at description)