Room With a View...

I never knew the exact instance in time when I got to know Phillip. Maybe he was always there, at the periphery of my vision, somewhere in this haze of opaquely lit rooms that form my existence. Maybe I imagined him, to save myself from receding from reality to become one of the shadows that haunt this hospital. Maybe, it was a lot of maybes.

I suppose I will never really know.

It was after one of the most recent treatments, while coming out of the spell of anaesthesia, that I first met him. Calm and serene he seemed to be sitting, looking out a window onto something I could not see lying from the bed.
“Hello mate,” he said turning towards me with a smile, “I thought you wouldn’t make it”.

And that was it. With those simple words he became a part of my daily life.

We were comrades. Shackled by age and confined by ailments. We plotted escapes from this servitude to medicines, means to get expensive bourbon in and have one night of carefree indulgence, all while humouring each other with romances with unattainable nurses. He was my friend. He kept my spirits rallying and kept this old, tired heart beating.
But most of all he was my eyes and ears, to a world that was beyond the confines of this bed. Immobile staring at the stark nothingness on the ceiling, he told me what was happening outside that window he sat facing, where the drone of the beeping machines faded to the lively sounds of the city. He told me stories of little children playing their games in innocence of the world around them, young lovers, holding hands, or sharing ice-creams as they sat under shady trees, and of men in business suits and sparkling shoes, on phones scurrying to and fro. He saw it all and he told me minute for minute, endlessly never trying.

Time it seemed move differently.

There were frequent interruptions to our reverie. I never knew if it was hours when they came or how long they stood and nodded at the charts at the foot of the bed, brought flowers or cards - or even for that matter who they were… Men in white suits, metal equipment clanking every so slightly in their movement and their hushed tones of concern, relatives I didn’t know or recognize. I never saw them clearly. I didn’t want to acknowledge their presence. All I wanted was for them to leave, so that Phillip and I could return to our conversations. There was that familiar numbness again after the men left, when suddenly Phillip said,
“It’s raining”.
The faint smell of dust settling under the weight of rain, accompanied by the soft clatter of raindrops on the pane was truth of Phillips statement.
“Ah, it caught them right in the middle of Wesley’s goal”.
Wesley was my favourite on the 8 year olds team. He moved with a limp - left behind from an attack of rickets in infancy - and had only just mustered up the courage to play after a long time on the benches. The grimace of pain on his forehead was a contradiction to the excited smile on his lips. I’d been rooting for him for a while and today, it seemed was the day for Wesley’s long awaited victory.
“The rain can’t deter our little hero”, said Phillip, and began a running commentary of Wesley’s daring tackles, running in and out of puddles of water, around the clumpy clutches of mean bullies – deftly nearing the goal posts.
I knew it was impossible for me to clutch the bed sheets in excitement, but my mind said I was. In, out he went, hobbling to his victory, until … ‘bang’, it was a goal.

A small achievement for the other boys, a paramount leap for Wesley.

Maybe it was the bubbling excitement that did it, or maybe it was just destined to be that way. But on that odd Sunday in some obscure year, my fingers, after years of immobility, twitched in excitement at Wesley’s goal and with that went off a whole trumpet of electronic devices.
My movement was heralded as nothing short of a miracle at the hospital. The many doctors that flitted in and out from the room were amazed how any movement at all was possible. However, to cover any future liabilities, all were sceptical about further improvement. This was just put down as a freak case in medical history and I returned to my old status as ‘resident vegetable’
Yet all the while, through the chaos of the white shirts, stethoscopes, charts and medicines, my friend kept sitting in his usual place - at the corner of my eye - smiling as if he knew of other, happier endings.
The stories of the view from the window continued; of sunrises and sunsets, of tempests raging their fury on the world, to light days of spring. From summer flower to autumn auburn leaves. Phillip saw it all and recounted, it with vivid colour and detail for me. It seemed as if the world beyond had moved into the hollow confines of the stark hospital room, and cast colourful shades on all who inhabited it. Phillip had brought the world in for me.
“You won’t believe what these two pigeons are doing”, chuckled Phillip. “The fatter one of the two - the woman - keeps eating the grains, and when the poor chap goes off in another direction, glares at him to come back. He gives the words ‘hen- pecked’ an entirely universal meaning”. The humour of the situation seemed to catch up. Two podgy grey things stalking the grass for seed, driven by hunger, and still slave to female instinct.
And suddenly I laughed. A hearty, throaty laugh that came from the pit of my stomach - rising like a swelling tide. Even though I had laughed many times before, the sound seemed unfamiliar to my ears. Yet Phillip went on as if he had heard it many times before.
“A little girl with gold ringlets has joined the activity” continued Phillip. “She seems to be chasing them all over the fountain. Now he has to worry about two women”.
I itched to get up and see for myself what all was happening outside the window.
It took an insurmountable amount of energy to move my body, but I willed it on. And almost as if breaking a mould, my legs suddenly bent. The movement broke Phillips attention and he awkwardly walked over to the bed. I asked him - verbally forming words audible to my ears - to call the nurse in.
As he walked to the door he turned to me and smiled. It may have been a trick of the light, but I thought I saw a tear trickle down his cheek. He turned as if wanting to say something… but seemed to change his mind. Walking over to the bed he gave my hand a tight squeeze and then, softly walked out the door, closing is gently.
My parched throat, unused for so long, seemed to want to break into song. Waiting for the nurse, lost in my thoughts I went off to sleep.
The next few days - for now I registered the ticking of the clock, the changing shifts outside and the nights accompanying silence - went by in a daze. There were frequent meetings with doctors, analysis of progress reports and family gatherings. Through all the activity I did not see Phillip. I assumed simply he was giving me space to re-adjust myself with the change.
Sometime had passed since the day I had called for the nurse and still I had not got out of bed. This was the day I was to get out of bed once and for all to go home - no longer needing the services of the hospital.
My anger at Phillip had abated. I did not understand why Phillip never came back to say goodbye, leaving as he did so quietly without a word, but I chose rather to remember him fondly than with anger. Pulling on the tweed coat left by the side of the bed I made an effort to walk to the window from which Phillip had recounted so many stories.




………..What is it about the world of illusions that is so much more real than reality? In retrospect that is the one question I have never been able to answer. Is it the hope inspired by an idea, so much more tangible than what actually exists? It was this idea of a beautiful world that made me get up from that bed and stand at his window, but the reality of it……….

Staring back at me from the panes that formed the window, in almost mock humour was a tenacious creeper clinging firmly to a brick wall. The only view from the window - a view of nothing at all.

And Phillip………………….?