On the Wings of Hope : Prose

I had to come here time and again - my current condition didn’t allow to me to do anything different. I had to stand in queues among same brothers-by-misfortune, to listen to silently-cold voices of doctors, ascertaining deterioration of your disease and constantly diligently drawing something on your out-patient card, without troubling themselves with any comments on that subject, though.

I got accustomed to this place, despite all its absurd. I could do no other. I cared no longer of what my doctors would tell me - my own sentence I have known for quite a while already and for a long time have reconciled to it. Different thoughts occupied my mind - I thirsted to know why these men so diligently avoided to look you in the face while reading your diagnosis, leaving you no options of survival - not in this life at least, not during ten incoming years. I was truly curios why they, snow-white like a funeral shroud in this house of grief, only multiplied this grief with their indifferent faces, cold voices …

Was a monthly ascertaining of the absence of any positive changes in my illness really desired by me? Whether I really needed those endless inspections, required by no one, even myself? No. Not for this I thirsted. I thirsted for words - a kind word of participation and understanding. I desired to hear words of support from them - just to know that some other can share your pain … simply to be aware of that. I wanted to behold a shine of joy - a joy of life - even in someone’s eyes, once in many months … But, obviously, I desired too much … too much in this life - and hopes of mine could never come true.

Probably for that particular reason now I have stopped, being amazed with what I have seen. I would, certainly, not able to say anything meaningful first tens of seconds, if some casual passer-by has suddenly decided to inquire why was I standing with my mouth widely opened, hardly incorporating cold winter air. There were no such ones - and that’s probably for the better.

That house of grief which I got used to observe for those almost two years, which I knew practically thoroughly, - it was no more both inside and outside. A sad inscription, engraved by dark gray letters “City hospital № 17” was gone, as well as lattices on windows and always-rude security guard, wiggling from constant sleep debt. Instead of an inscription there was a bright … a signboard of sorts … have no idea how to name it, where new words were imprinted: “Town house of healing. We are happy to wish you a good health!” Lattices on windows disappeared as well, and there was a shining light, coming from windows … and when I have habitually risen up by stairs, I was greeted by an elegantly-dressed young man, who said something like “Come in, please. May you be always in good health!” and magnanimously opened me a door.

Shortly after that I had to come to my senses for at least ten minutes in an entrance hall. And this hall itself changed as well. No more there were decayed walls and tiny cloakroom with eternally snapping and rude woman of thirty five years. There was a sort of large parquet hall instead - walls changed their color to grass-greenish, and instead of a cloakroom attendant Masha there was a smiling woman of thirty years, who, when I have approached her, also welcomed me, kindly helped to take off my coat, and, having given me a label, once more wished me good health.

To tell the truth, I didn’t expect all that. I got so much accustomed to former “yellow house”, and to see it totally changed was truly surprising for me. Even more intriguing were new people - attentive and, I shall not be afraid of this word, really sympathizing.

When I have climbed a new beautiful twisted ladder on a second floor, my eyes surprised me one more time. Narrow, constantly badly lightened corridors and men, crowding in them, were gone, as well as sad-yellow walls and endlessly-long line of doors with diverse and hard-to-understand names of specializations of these doctors - instead there were wide, brightly lighted and spacious corridors with some sort of bluish-white (and, as it seemed to me, as if even a bit shining) shade walls, and there was practically no trace remained from a heap of doors with badly readable names of specialties of these “doctors”, eagerly not expecting you behind them.