Note: This memoir was a gold key winner and American Voices Award nominee in the 2008 Scholastic Writing Awards in Lancaster County. An excerpt appears in Teen Weekend tomorrow. The story can be read in its entirety here.
“Room 323A” by Kelly Smith, Lancaster Catholic High School
“Beep, Beep, Beep.” It is cold and the machine is a murky, hideous grey. It beats on steadily. The room is freezing, Room 323A, cold like an ice chest freshly stocked. I see through a clod of germs and vapor. There is a smell of putrid sickness in the air. Bleach, Clorox, and a mix of medicines waft into my nose. I am here once again after school to visit my mother. It has been two months, and Room 323A hasn’t changed a bit.
There is still that obnoxious heater in the corner, clanking away, attempting to replace the crystal frost crawling onto my skin with a sticky spray of steam. I take a step, the tiles, slippery and weak, creak as I lean forward to say hello. The rough plastic of the bed rail scratches my skin. The buttons, raised and multicolored, work their magic. My mother is suddenly sitting upright. The clear liquid of the IV slowly drips, drips, drips. There is a moan in the distance. I know what this means. The sounds of suffering are everywhere. I am back here, in Room 323A. There is no doubt.
Nurse Mary comes in, her thick red lipstick pops as she shouts her annoying, “Halloo!” I am not excited to see her. Her thick glasses are bottle caps resting on her pointy nose. I slouch down into the bumpy, stiff maroon “visitor’s chair.” It is as if I am sitting on a pile of rocks. My head pounds as the florescent lights shine brightly. Slow breaths prove to be mistakes as the daily meals are handed out. “Slap!” Those are mashed potatoes? “Crunch!” A steak? No. Instead, upon my mother’s plate there is a stiff, green blob of what appears to be the complete opposite of meat.
I like nothing about Room 323A. I look to my left, a brick wall sits right outside the window. The world beyond is shaded by the humongous factory waiting just past my reach. This room fits perfectly with my mood. I am sullen, dark, confused just like Room 323A. It is unwanted; no one wants to be in the hospital. It is overshadowed by the massiveness of this building of agony. I almost feel sorry for this room. Life is unfair, Room 323A, you’re stuck with your ugly green tile and your pale blue walls with stains that are unknown. Life is unjust, Room 323A, that my strong, brave mother is inhabiting you. I do not like you, Room 323A.
Sirens blare down below, and another unlucky patient arrives. Shivers slide down my back. I hate the shrill, ominous sound of the ambulance. Sneakers squeak in the hallway. Nurses, pure and sanitized in their colored scrubs, sprint by. Doctors, distant and wise, discuss patients. The world swirls all around, yet time stops in Room 323A. I am aware of everything. Especially now, a certain fly has occupied my attention. It has landed on the Mickey Mouse clock, another failed attempt to lighten the mood of the room like the flowers, balloons and the just-too-adorable “Get Well” Teddy Bear. I wonder if this fly too, is sick. If not, he should leave. This is not a pleasant place. I would not wish this place on a fly.
The IV fluids trickle on, sliding down the tube, slowly, methodically, sustaining my mother. It has all the power in the room. I stay still, so as not to disturb the master. I want this tiny, transparent tube to work without impediment. The machine to the left of the IV stand, which looks way too much like the claw of Grendel I read about in English class, is menacing. It taunts me.
“Beep, Beep, Beep BEEEEEEEP!” I leap from my chair and panicked, scream for Nurse “Know-it-all.” My heart is pounding a thousand beats per minute. It beats my pain like a drum line at full blast. For a time, I have lost my mother. Suddenly, like a wave of summer breeze, calmness reaches into my soul. I collapse into a chair. Room 323A has played a cruel trick. It has had an electrical surge. My mother is fine; the intimidating machine is not. 323A smirks at me. It is small, like a jail cell. I feel the walls closing in. Hours feel like days, the clock ticks, sounding out every hour like a slap across the face. I have spent too much time here.
Abruptly, I hear a click, then a creak. The door slowly opens. It is Daddy. It is as if this terrible room pulls him in. The door slams behind him. I regret his coming, for he too, is now trapped. He has come to take me home. Unexpectedly, I grip the wall of 323A like a friend. I instantly forget all of the faults of this room. I realize there is one quality I come to in this horrible, depressing place.
I lean down to hug her, she holds me tightly. I feel her love, and it warms my body. This icebox melts into a boiling pot upon the stove. I am overcome. Niagara Falls inhabits my eyes. The pink silk of her pajamas caresses my cheek, whispering, “Everything will be alright.” I’m not sure I believe this voice. It is an illusion, a welcomed one none-the-less. I immediately remember why I have come.
This despicable place has engulfed her. I feel awful, nauseated and dizzy for leaving her here. There is nothing to be done. I have fought a war with Room 323A, and it has won. Tomorrow, 323A, is another day. I will be back. Tomorrow I will conquer you with happiness. I will thrust greatness upon you. Room 323A will be melancholy no more. I solemnly make this promise, exit the room, and feel at ease. I can breathe easily.
