The Long Day at the Hospital

The Long Day at the Hospital

The day of the operation began with urgency. We had to swap blood for the blood bank, and while the formalities were being sorted, I started calling my people—my kind of people—the ones who get things done. They were the friends I trusted deeply, the ones who wouldn’t hesitate to help. I knew they’d search, ask around, and somehow manage it, simply because they were my circle.

Outside the operation theatre, Dad and I sat on a long bench, a nervous silence stretching between us. My brother sat across the hall, near the steps of the opposite room, quiet and restless. Time moved slowly. It was 9:45 AM when hunger finally nudged me. I turned to Dad, “Let’s go for breakfast. If we stay like this, we’ll fall sick, and we need to take care of Mom.” He nodded. My brother insisted on staying behind while we went.

We had a quick breakfast and rushed back. By the time we returned, the operation was over. Mom had been shifted to another floor for observation. The hospital was huge, almost like a maze. We were told to go to Lift Number 6 and head to the fifth floor. After asking around, getting misdirected, and retracing steps, we found it.

But even there, we weren’t allowed to visit immediately.

So, my brother offered to bring juice for Mom and asked Dad to take it in as a reason to enter. He came back after a brief visit, and then it was my turn. We assumed only one person was allowed in at a time. I went inside. A nurse stopped me at the entrance.

“Whom are you visiting?”

“My mom,” I replied, softly.

“How many people?”

“Just me. Short visit,” I assured her.

I stepped inside. There she was—her hand wrapped in bandages, the wrist freshly operated on. A painkiller had dulled her discomfort. She was awake but drowsy. I patted her gently, whispered, “Soon we’ll go to a normal room to rest.” She nodded faintly. I didn’t stay long. Just seeing her face, knowing she was okay, was enough.

Outside, I sat again. Relatives began calling to check on Mom’s condition. Around noon, her sister and brother-in-law arrived to visit. My brother asked me to pick them up from the entrance. But the hospital had strict visitor hours—we weren’t allowed in yet. So I took them to the canteen and ordered coffee. My brother joined us there, and shortly after, my friend Sindhu arrived to visit as well.

We all had lunch together. The tension eased slightly in the company of familiar faces.

Since my brother had spent the previous night in the hospital, I took over the duty from evening to the next day. I found myself going up and down so many times—picking up medicines, checking on X-rays, answering questions, escorting donors—that even a stranger once asked, “Do you work here?” I laughed, “No, just here for my mom.”

I even made friends with the lift operator. Every ride came with a new story from him. I listened. After all, sitting in a tiny box all day must feel endless—maybe a chat helped.

As night approached, I fed Mom her dinner. It was nearly 8 PM, and getting darker outside. Since outside food wasn’t allowed for patients, Dad and I had to sneak out one by one to eat. I volunteered to go first.

“Going alone?” Mom was surprised. “The person in the next bed got a parcel brought in. You go too, for our daughter,” she said.

Dad went to ask security if we could bring food in—but they refused. “No use asking,” he said, “You have to sneak it in.”

I didn’t want to take the risk, so I told Dad we’d just eat outside. Mom looked a little worried.

“Going alone?” she asked again.

Dad smiled with calm confidence. “Don’t worry, she’ll handle it. She can do it.”

That line—she can do it—stayed with me.

I stepped out into the dim light. The corridors echoed a little too much. The darkness and quiet corners reminded me of every horror film I’d ever seen. But that she can handle it gave me courage.

At the hospital canteen, I stood in line. The girl in front of me asked for a parcel.

“Can we bring food inside?” I asked her.

“Yes, but not for the patients. We can have it,” she replied.

I called Dad and ordered something for him too. I saw a box of fruit mix and picked it up—just in case Mom got hungry later.

I returned, ate quietly, and then fed her some of the fruit after checking with the nurse. They said there’d be a midnight check on her too. I settled into a chair beside her, half-asleep, half-alert, eyes blinking open with every small sound.

I didn’t want to wake Dad for anything. He’s aged, and he hadn’t slept properly the night before either.

The night was long. The day, longer. But somehow, we made it through.

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