Kingdom of the Sick 6

KINGDOM OF THE SICK 6

I succumbed to St. Vincent's oppressive environment during my very first days there. Everything I encountered contributed to feelings of unease: the blood work, the innumerable tests, the often-hostile nurses and aides, the constant noise and perpetual light in the corridors, my difficulty sleeping and the frequent interruptions when I did manage to doze.

The doctors told me that I should walk the corridors so as to prevent my muscles from atrophying. Desperate to get well, I did what they suggested. As I strolled the hallways, the rooms I passed—with their ashen occupants and sterile interiors—made it seem that I had entered another dimension, one in which everyone seemed on the verge of death. To survive this extended hospitalization, I couldn't give in to despair. Suspecting that music might help, I asked my brother to bring in some CDs and a player. Once he did, my attitude changed.

During my morning strolls, I played the most scatological songs I could find. My illness had made me very weak, and so my pace was slow. Yet, fragile as I was, I was enthralled with Missy Elliott or Peaches singing about their pussies and butts, rappers and rockers boasting of sexual prowess and big dicks. I liked anything that was obscene, the raunchier the better—anything that sounded angry. It helped me remember when I was younger, and in perfect health.

Friends visited, as many as 20 or 30 a day, until it felt as if a never-ending party going on. Often I found myself in the same room with people who, though I knew them all, were totally unlike one another—a fashion designer, say, coupled with a Spanish scholar; an indie rocker with a classical musician. Despite their differences, they got along beautifully. People took turns bringing me food, books, magazines, anything I needed. The design collective As Four brought me a dancing turkey, since it was Thanksgiving time. Someone even loaned me a DVD player. I grasped what a wide range of acquaintances I had, and that in itself made me feel better. Most important, however, was the fact that I felt loved, just as I loved the people who came to see me. During my stay I became more accepting and open, a man far different from my usual, more cynical self.

As my mood improved, so did my blood count. I felt better every day. When I was released after a month, I tried to take what I'd learned in the hospital to the outside world. Unfortunately, I've been only partially successful in that. In the real world, I've found, my tranquility is as transitory as my health. o