I always thought I’d be like painter Chuck Close, painting feverishly from my sick bed if I had to. But when I was actually confined to a hospital bed?
I’m ashamed to admit, I was useless.
That senile body part I mentioned in my last post? That had to come out. It was to be a surgery that would be a walk in the park, the surgeon said. He didn’t mention which park, or how difficult the trail would be. It was a class-5 trail, I’m afraid, uphill most of the way.
For 4 days I huddled in the hospital, hazy, woozy, hungry and sick to my stomach at the same time. My sketchbook, paints, and pencils waited for me on the bedside table, but I could not sit up long enough to sketch. Worse, my mind—usually brimming with stories, pictures, and color—was a mud-hued blank.
But finally, one morning I woke to notice the sun streaming onto the building next to my room. It was perhaps the first image of beauty I had noticed all week. I clambered out of bed, sat in the hospital chair, and painted the picture for this post.
The painting is not a thing of beauty, but the morning was exquisite. As I finished this, the surgeon came into the room and sent me home.