Behind the Curtain

Inside the room where I "slept", like any longer-term spot in a regular hospital, the four spots that held people were basically "rooms". These rooms were separated by curtains. Curtains.

Now most people, if they've seen any televisions shows or films about hospitals, are going to be aware of these separators, and you might be able to get a sense of the privacy those who happen to be living behind them ascribe to them. I can tell you, though, from experience, when you are there, that's not just a game of "privacy ascription", that's how you live. That's just the way it is. Those curtains are sound proof and no vision of what happens inside can ever escape. Now, the factuality of that statement is demonstrably false, but you just live like it's the only truth in the world.

It's kinda neat. Doctors come, ask questions; flatulence occurs; sponge baths happen...In the morning, with the sunlight coming in the window, my curtain with Mister Anthony was opaque as sheet-rock. But, once it got dark that sheet turned into a shadow puppet free-for-all. (This also implies that during the day my room was as visible to Mister Anthony as his was to me during the evening, but that's a thought you steadfastly ignore during your stay.)

Things happened behind that curtain that I couldn't comprehend then or ever. Conversations were held--that I wasn't a part of obviously--topics so bizarre and fanciful that my drugged up brain could simply could be wrapped around.


It was part of the experience, putting your faith into cloth partitions.