There are many lessons one learns walking through the long white, sanitised corridors of the hospital.
It takes just a tiny mishap to upset your plans. One moment of upset that has a domino effect, throwing everything into a disarray.
You may think you are in control, plotting out the schedule of the days ahead, when in reality there is nothing beyond the moment you are in that you know of.
There are dynamics far beyond you that are set in motion, and pull the strings in the dance of life. In a four-day span many things were rewritten on the script of my life and many realisations I had.
That hospitals are places you might drive past everyday, but never take a second look at, until you are compelled to enter the gates of one.
Garment of comfort
That doctors are people you know of through others, but they come to occupy the central part of your universe when you cry for help and then they are the only people you can trust after God.
That although green is the colour that cools your eyes, it is white of the uniform of nurses and their smiles that you need to reassure yourself that everything is fine.
That blue is the colour of the long apron a patient wears going into surgery - a garment of comfort that signals a 'homecoming' in the safe hands of a skilled surgeon who carves out your pain, stitches up the frayed ends of your wounds and lulls you into a painless stupor.
That pleasure is all that we seek and run after but pain is the greatest leveller. We have a deeper bond with pain; its more primitive; its linked to our very origin and it has the power to humble you and reconnect you to your roots.
That there is nothing more chilling than fear of the unknown. Patients, looking tiny and frail in their blue gowns, being wheeled into the operation theatre shiver with the chill of the unknown that awaits them on the other side of the glass door.
That tears are colourless and more salty when you are anguished. Going past the ICU, watching the tears of the people huddled together, waiting and praying for their loved one makes you realise that grief and compassion have a universal language.
That there is a mountain of strength in a bunch of people praying together.
That there is nothing more liberating than letting go. As you place your trust in the hands of the surgeon and rely on the alacrity and dedication of the nurse and the hospital staff, you have an unwavering faith in them and the hope that they will not let you down.
That caution is stark white and the other side of the fear coin and it is something you instinctively take while trying to minimise the pain of your loved one, just out of surgery.
That bliss is what you experience when you go home with your loved one, healed and safe and on the road to recovery.
