Hope comes in many packages.
Today, it is an 84 year old orthopedic trauma patient.
Hope greeted me with a smile as I entered the ward she was sharing with my sister. She was sat in a hospital chair, her plastered right leg propped up on several pillows.
A few minutes later, I peered over, and saw her applying some lip balm. Her shoulder-length silver hair was just brushed, tucked neatly behind her ears. I could see the glamorous, younger woman emerge. She noticed me admiring her. I smiled, nodding 'good morning'. She returned the greeting, visibly appreciative of the attention.
Hope was alone. My sister had been in the ward for 24 hours and had not seen anyone visit her. Her phone didn't ring either. 'My grand-daughter should be visiting later today', she explained, when I offered her chocolates.
Hope was happy to chat. In fact, she invited me to have a conversation; first about how she's been eating far too many chocolates since she'd been here - then about why this place had become her second home.
Hope had been admitted into hospital some 2 months ago, for a knee replacement. For all intents and purposes, the surgery had been a success. Days later, she slipped in the hospital bathroom and as she described it, 'it was as though a rubber band had snapped'. Her knee was in fragments again. More surgery. But that wasn't where it ended. A few days later, she broke the thigh bone of the same leg (femur fracture?). Her third surgery. She couldn't quite explain the last fracture, but it's meant that she won't be going anywhere for a while yet.
In spite of this series of unfortunate events, Hope's emerald green eyes still sparkled. They were gentle and warm and soft. Her demeanor elegant, her composure a reminder of a bygone era, when ladies were graceful and refined.
"Do you live with anyone?", I inquired, trying hard to conceal my concern.
"No, I live alone. I have done for a long time. Once I'm up and walking again, I'm sure I will manage just fine". Her tone was... hope.
"My daughter lives too far away to visit, all the way in Caringbah. The Shire. My grand-daughter will come though, she'll be in later today", she reiterated.
On her hospital tray, a jug of water (no cup), some hand lotion, half a chocolate bar, a pen and a pink, A5 hardcover notebook with GRANDMA'S NOTEBOOK in big bold letters on the cover. I smiled, relieved.
I offered to refill her water jug and to get her a fresh glass. She politely accepted. "Those nurses...they take away things and then forget to replace them", she chuckled, amused rather than annoyed.
"Your sister is a lovely young lass. Good on her for playing sport. Tell her she's going to be fine. She's young and she'll be up and about in no time".
"Tell her that old age comes before you know it. It seems like only yesterday I was a young woman- it's hard to believe I'll be 85 next year".
Today, it is an 84 year old orthopedic trauma patient.
Hope greeted me with a smile as I entered the ward she was sharing with my sister. She was sat in a hospital chair, her plastered right leg propped up on several pillows.
A few minutes later, I peered over, and saw her applying some lip balm. Her shoulder-length silver hair was just brushed, tucked neatly behind her ears. I could see the glamorous, younger woman emerge. She noticed me admiring her. I smiled, nodding 'good morning'. She returned the greeting, visibly appreciative of the attention.
Hope was alone. My sister had been in the ward for 24 hours and had not seen anyone visit her. Her phone didn't ring either. 'My grand-daughter should be visiting later today', she explained, when I offered her chocolates.
Hope was happy to chat. In fact, she invited me to have a conversation; first about how she's been eating far too many chocolates since she'd been here - then about why this place had become her second home.
Hope had been admitted into hospital some 2 months ago, for a knee replacement. For all intents and purposes, the surgery had been a success. Days later, she slipped in the hospital bathroom and as she described it, 'it was as though a rubber band had snapped'. Her knee was in fragments again. More surgery. But that wasn't where it ended. A few days later, she broke the thigh bone of the same leg (femur fracture?). Her third surgery. She couldn't quite explain the last fracture, but it's meant that she won't be going anywhere for a while yet.
In spite of this series of unfortunate events, Hope's emerald green eyes still sparkled. They were gentle and warm and soft. Her demeanor elegant, her composure a reminder of a bygone era, when ladies were graceful and refined.
"Do you live with anyone?", I inquired, trying hard to conceal my concern.
"No, I live alone. I have done for a long time. Once I'm up and walking again, I'm sure I will manage just fine". Her tone was... hope.
"My daughter lives too far away to visit, all the way in Caringbah. The Shire. My grand-daughter will come though, she'll be in later today", she reiterated.
On her hospital tray, a jug of water (no cup), some hand lotion, half a chocolate bar, a pen and a pink, A5 hardcover notebook with GRANDMA'S NOTEBOOK in big bold letters on the cover. I smiled, relieved.
I offered to refill her water jug and to get her a fresh glass. She politely accepted. "Those nurses...they take away things and then forget to replace them", she chuckled, amused rather than annoyed.
"Your sister is a lovely young lass. Good on her for playing sport. Tell her she's going to be fine. She's young and she'll be up and about in no time".
"Tell her that old age comes before you know it. It seems like only yesterday I was a young woman- it's hard to believe I'll be 85 next year".
