I’m in a hospital room with almost nothing in it. A bed, with a single blanket and pillow. A chair. One of those narrow little tables you can pull over the bed, where they put meals. They let me keep two paperback books, and my notebook. I’m glad I remembered to get a notebook before we went to the ER. I asked my brother if he happened to have anything around without any wires, and he found me an old green composition book. 100 pages, college-ruled. That should last me, I hope.
I ask if I can have something to write with. Sometimes they let you have plastic pen-like things. I saw a box of them once, and it said that they were for maximum security prisons. Sometimes instead they offer pencils. In one hospital I was in, I got frustrated with the regular pencils, which were those tiny golf-sized ones, and started writing in colored pencil instead. One of the other patients got mad when she saw me doing it, because she felt that the colored pencils should only be used for coloring. She took coloring very seriously.
The nurse says that he can get me a crayon. This is new; I’ve never been to a place that didn’t allow either pencils or pens. I say, okay. He asks what color, and I say that black would be best, but I’ll take whatever they have. He comes back with a black crayon. It’s at least new and sharp, though of course the sharpness doesn’t last long. After a while it breaks in half, making it even more difficult to use it for writing. It’s slow, and tedious. For a person used to typing, which I imagine is pretty much all of us these days, any kind of writing by hand can feel slow, but doing it in crayon is definitely an extra challenge. I find myself only writing on every other line in the notebook, because I can’t write very small. It’s easy to smear the letters, so I have to not rush, and take my time with each letter. But for all that, it’s good to be able to write. No matter how bad it gets, I’ve learned over the years, it helps me deal if I can just put it into words somewhere. Read More