Some years ago I spent about a month in the hospital for treatment of an illness which, though somewhat mysterious at first, had no long-term effects. Roughly half my stay was spent in diagnosis and the other half receiving treatment. (For Nathan Payne’s diagnosis and treatment of a sickness in Catholic schools, see page 34.) I don’t think any aspect of my stay was enjoyable, yet it did nothing to shake, and in fact re-inforced, my fondness for hospitals.
I had a variety of roommates in my short time there. One man, whose leg had been amputated after a car accident and was now infected, claimed to be a former prison gang leader. (Sam Kriss profiles another gang leader on page 18.) He was a devout Muslim convert and very friendly toward me. He became medically non-responsive on the second or third day we were roommates; after he was revived his doctors learned that he had secretly been taking anti-anxiety medication that had a severe negative interaction with his prescribed painkillers. (Stanley Fish looks at an anxiety-inducing election on page 29.) He was very lonely there and checked himself out against the doctor’s orders when his girlfriend and son did not visit him as he had greatly hoped.
Another roommate I had was an elderly Catholic priest, a member of a religious order, who had been in a car wreck while driving to visit his brother. (For Vincent Strand on another priest, see page 13.) Another was a very grumpy man with an ailment I did not understand, who insisted on vomiting, frequently, into plastic trash cans only (symptoms not dissimilar to Ian Fleming’s last days; see Peter Hitchens, page 41). He accused me of stealing his share of hospital-issue shampoo: my first shower in three weeks. Another was a man dying of liver failure, whose family crowded into the room for days to be with him during his last moments. When he died I was given my own room.
I think what I like about the hospital is its ascetic quality. Suffering is good for mortification of the soul, and hospitals are full of suffering. (For Nic Rowan on a small mortification, see page 64.) Like hotels they are residences nobody lives in, but there are no “amenities.” The beds are impossible to sleep in, you are awakened every two hours during the night to have your “vitals” checked, and the food is from a cafeteria, not a restaurant. On top of this, you are sick with whatever put you there in the first place.
It is a great place for the purification of one’s thoughts—the pointless distractions of ordinary life have no meaning. (David Bentley Hart enters the world of pure thought on page 55.) Your main desire is to have back whatever health you had before. The patients all wear hospital socks and dressing gowns; the doctors and nurses all wear scrubs. Reminders of death are everywhere, and everyone staying there is just passing through. (For more on death, see Eduard Habsburg-Lothringen, page 61.) It is almost monastic; I find visiting them comforting.
