The Roommate

The new patient, who was to be my hospital roommate, arrived at about six in the evening, shortly before the beginning of the Jewish festival of Shavuot. He was a large young man, tall and verging on obesity. He was wearing a black suit, black shoes, white socks, and a black skullcap, but instead of a dress shirt, he was wearing a white tee-shirt, which scarcely covered the huge belly that hung over his pants. His beard was wispy and he needed a haircut. His little cupid’s bow of a mouth looked strangely lost in his large face. The young man brought with him a big suitcase and a bundle of some sort, as if he were going to a hotel instead of a hospital.

A nurse accompanied him to help him settle in. Almost immediately he turned on the television set by his bed. Images appeared but they were out of focus. The nurse explained that if he wanted to watch television, he had to pay for it privately. It was not working because he had not yet subscribed to it. He seemed not to understand her because he continued to complain that the television was out of order. After the nurse left the room, I told him that his television worked perfectly well the day before when his bed’s previous occupant had watched it. I repeated the nurse’s explanation, but I was clearly beating my gums in vain, for my words made no more impression on him than did the nurse’s.

He looked around the room and then pressed the bell for a nurse. “Nurse, nurse!” he hollered. When no one came immediately, he called the hospital on his cellphone. “I can’t stay in this room!” he shouted. “The television doesn’t work, there’s no bedside table, and there’s blood all over the floor.” (The patient who had preceded him, evacuated to a private room because of an infection, took the table with him. I was still bleeding heavily and my catheter had not caught all the drops. There were a few next to my bed and one next to his, where I had been standing a few hours before.) Again, he pressed the bell for a nurse and again he called out “nurse, nurse!” When a nurse appeared, he loudly repeated his assertion that he couldn’t stay in this room because the television didn’t work, there was no bedside table, and there was blood all over the floor.

What an expletive deleted he is, I thought to myself. He’s acting as if he found a dead rat in a $500 a night hotel room. But then I caught myself and was ashamed. What did I know about this young man? Perhaps he was simply frightened. The nurse asked him to wait in the room until she found another one for him. He sat down on his bed and looked at me. “Are you homeless too?” he asked.

My irritation turned to pity, yet I must admit I was relieved when he, his suitcase, and his bundle left the room. “Good luck!” he called out to me as he was going out the door. I needed it, but surely he needed it even more.