The itch was starting to spread, I could see the red spots where earlier none of them had been. I waited, like I always do when what the course demands an immediate action and a war cry that echoes on the lines of Gerad Butler’s “Spartaaa”. I waited because I thought the rashes would magically disappear and also because doctors are stupid enough to have burnt the midnight oil and studied for years for the very thing I was hoping air and water to heal (*sarcasm, takes a bow*).
I trudged to the hospital, freaked out absolutely by my body that resembled one that has been repeatedly bitten by mosquitoes, mosquitoes that left tiny red mark as a symbol of their love and affection. Hospitals are scary, though their sole intention is to make a sick man walk or heal the blind. Quite like Jesus.
I didn’t meet Jesus at the hospital. It would have been incredible if I had. I have a long list of “what were you thinking” that I want to get started on if I ever have a sit-down with him.
As I sat next to an old man, who was flipping through the pages of Readers Digest, I felt oddly calm. I have a habit of imagining the worst case scenario, but today, surrounded by the sick and the ailing, I felt not so much out of place.
Reminded me of…
1) How growing up my problems felt one-of-a-kind. I genuinely felt God was picking on me because everybody else “looked” normal and had normal lives. Truth: Everybody looks normal until you get to know them. Just because nobody (including me) was putting their guard down, doesn’t mean their life is peachy.
2) How I would usually get surprised when someone I would look up to would confess what a tough time they had growing up.
3) How I would (and still do) keep my problems to myself because to cry in front of others is a weak thing to do.
But when you are in hospital, it’s a fact that you are sick/hurting/bruised/not all right. And surrounded by people, who were letting their bruises show — willingly and unwillingly — I didn’t mind being weak and strong at the same time.