Déjà vu at Saint Spiridon hospital, the same packed waiting areas and hallways the same rude, crude triage people. Father is finally wheeled into a room where a nurse assists him to bed, she puts him into an adult diaper and when he’s laid to bed we see the bottom of his feet layered in a thick crust of dried blood.
I picture father weak and alone, bleeding and marching over puddles of blood soaking it thick into his Persian rug. The nurse brings in a basin filled with water and begins to wash his feet, topless on his back, wrapped in an oversize, loose pamper father pulls his feet out of her hands and screams in pain, she wrestles and holds him with increasing force, her distorted sweaty face a warning to the patients in the room.
I circle the bed grab the water basin and toss it onto a metal table against the wall. Blood water mixture spatters a crime scene as father, the victim, lies scared and out of breath in the middle of a white bed. The nurse storms out and returns moments later convoyed by a woman which introduces herself as the on duty doctor and asks to speak to me in the hallway. Before leaving the room I place a moist towel on father’s feet and prohibit any contact from the nurse.