The sala for familiares of patients in intensive care has seventy seats that look like the waiting area at the gate of an airport. Same way with the sala outside the quirófonos, or surgical operating rooms. I’ve spent a lot of time in both of them since six thirty Thursday morning. There is always a television going. It can get pretty surreal watching tornadoes in the States, the wedding in London, and this morning an awful children’s TV show called Sabadazo en Pijamas — Saturday Morning in Pajamas. For a roomful of people who had just spent the night sleeping on the floor waiting for news of their loved ones, I suppose it was a bright note. Post-surgical familiares share this room with relatives of those brought in as victims of accidents. They bring them here from all over Mexico, airlifted from highways all over the country, set down in a grassy patch just behind our hotel. Intensive care is a huge building, separate from the thirteen story tower we’ve been in. “It’s the best in the country,” I’m continually told.
Marta and I switched shifts last Wednesday, so I could spend the night with Larry before they came to cart him away long before dawn. It was close to three o’clock Thursday afternoon before I got word that all had gone well and that he had been transferred to intensive care. Marta had carried all the stuff we had accumulated during our three week wait in the tower room here to my tiny hotel room — a small fan, the eggshell foam mattress thing, his pillow, a fleece blanket, rolls of toilet paper, toiletries and coffee cups from Seven-Eleven. (Hey, you save six pesos on refills, and they are handy for so many things.) Now we are confined to two designated seats, assigned according to the bed number that Larry occupies. One of us is supposed to be in those seats at all times. At this present moment I’m playing hooky, because I’ve just seen Larry, and he’s doing great. He ate a whole cup of green gelatina, and made an awful face when he drank papaya juice. That’s my guy.
Not going into more detail, because I need to get back. Perhaps Monday they will move him back to the sixth floor. Maybe Thursday we can head home?