A Personal Essay

Terry Heath recently gave a writing prompt at his blog:

Spend an afternoon in a location (or reflect on one where you’ve been). Explore it thoroughly, then recreate an actual scene you experienced where something you’ve observed ran in strong contradiction with what you expected in this location. Reveal the subjects observed by appearance, action, and dialogue.

This seemed like a nice challenge, and as I am always looking to challenge myself and widen my spectrum of writing, I thought it would be an enjoyable prompt in which to take part.

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As I sat in the Intensive Care Unit of a chlidren’s hospital that specialises in heart surgery the most prominent memory is that of the monitoring equipment: Giving assurance of life, piercing the respectful silence that weighs upon even the most stalwart of hearts.

Little hope was found in the hall of beds, lights darkened, the incessant blips were enough to send any person to the point of insanity. Nurses spoke with a gentle whisper, solemn, humbled, as they sat at their station or visited beds to perform obligatory observations.

Those who were in attendance of their loved ones; sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, all maintained their vigil. Trusting in the skills of doctors and nurses, knowing that they have no control themselves, and remain focused wholly on their own concerns and tribulations.

That was until, from a secluded private room stepped out a slip of a woman. Short, slim, brown-skinned, dressed in the bright colours of garb native to India or Pakistan. The sharp features of the woman focused on the bed at which I sat as she approached my family.

“May I give a blessing for my religion?” Her broken English was a barrier that was easily overcome as an understanding was formed not only of intent but of special circumstance.

“Of course, so long as I can give your son one of our blessings.” My dad spoke to the woman, both their voices sustaining the hushed reverence of such a place as, with some enthusiasm, the unassuming woman agreed.

Retreating back to the small room where her son lay, only a few moments passed until she returned with oils and various other items needed to perform the blessing of her religion.

Speaking in a language I didn’t understand, she offered forth the blessing and prayer to the deity or deities in which she believed. My dad, in turn, disappeared into the secluded private room and, I assume, performed a blessing of my own religion.

It was, while families prepared for possible bereavement, a wonderful and humbling demonstration of selflessness and faith. A sharing of cultures that carried no pretense or bias.

Solitude was transormed in that simple exchange to a feeling of togetherness. Time was sacrificed from vigils that were of utmost importance, and with a kind thanks for the blessings and being able to share faith, lives continued on their separate paths.

A momentary crossing of roads that inspired a small boy.