Seeing is believing. But at times, our mind distorts what we see, so it becomes what we want to see and not reality.

And a traumatic life experience can color our perception of what is happening around us. When this occurs, it can leave us . . .

More Confused Then Ever

    The Temple Island Hospital lobby bustled with people. I clutched the medication I’d picked up from the pharmacy and made my way toward the front doors. As my eyes scanned the rotunda, they focused on a woman headed in the same direction.

    Seeing me staring at her, she inquired in a somewhat abrasive tone, “What are you looking at?”       

    “You,” I replied.

    “Me? Can’t you find something better to do?”

    “What’s better than looking at a beautiful woman?”

    She blushed and bent her head. Her eyes surveyed her legs decorated in heavy metal braces. She wobbled on her cane. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m an old, broken lady.”

    “Old? You couldn’t be more than sixty-five.”

    “You’re being very generous.”

    “How generous?” I queried.

    “Let’s just say you missed the mark by a few years, young man.”

    “Are you being facetious? Or do you just have poor eyesight? Nobody’s called me a young man in a very long time.”

    “Well, maybe you should look at yourself in a mirror. You’re quite attractive. Your wife is a lucky woman.”

    “Oh, no. I’m not married. My wife died six years ago.”

    “I’m sorry to hear that.”

     “Don’t be sorry. She was sick for a long time. She fought cancer for almost eleven years. Her death was a blessing.”

     “That’s so sad. It must’ve been hard on you. I don’t know if I could’ve handled that.”

     “I didn’t handle it well. I fell apart. I felt so alone. Had to seek professional counseling. Didn’t know if I wanted to go on. My life seemed so empty.”

     “And now? Have things gotten any better?”

     “Yes, I’ve met you.”

     “Oh, stop! You can’t be serious.”

     “But I am being serious. We’ve been together for just a few minutes and this is the most meaningful conversation I’ve had in years. Aside from my therapist, that is.”

     “Well, I guess I should feel good you are able to talk to me. Oh, my, look at the time. I’ve got to be going,” she declared.

     “But why? I’m just getting to know you.”

     “Maybe we’ll run into each other again some time. I’m a volunteer here at the hospital gift shop . . . every Tuesday and Thursday, 9 am to noon, for the past twelve years.”

     “Are you single?”

     “That’s getting a bit personal.”

     “Just curious, I guess. As I mentioned before, you are quite attractive.”

     “That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m alone and not interested in a relationship.”

     “Why not?”

     “Can’t you see? I’m handicapped, for God’s sake.”

     “Aren’t we all, in one way or another?”

     “Well, yes, you’re probably right. But why me? There are so many other eligible women around who’d give their right arm to be with a man like you.”

     “So you do find me appealing.”

     “I didn’t say that.”

     “Yes you did. May I have your phone number?”

     “What?”

     “Your phone number. I’d like to call you some time.”

     “Okay. But don’t call unless you have an emergency and need someone to talk to.” She took a pen from her skirt pocket, wrote her number on a small piece of paper, and handed it to me.

     “What about a date?”

     “I don’t do dates,” she responded, a bit irritated.

     “Not even with a man who finds you irresistible?”

     “Now stop. Call me if you have to. But don’t get your hopes up about anything more than another chat. Now, I’m going. Good-bye.”

     “But I don’t know your name,” I shouted.

     “It’s on the paper with my number,” she yelled back.

     “Hey, I’m Ira . . . Ira Shelton.”

     “Good-bye, Ira,” she chanted and disappeared through the lobby doors of the hospital.

     I looked down at the paper I held in my hand. Her name, scribbled on its surface, jumped out at me—Miriam Rosen. “Miriam Rosen,” I muttered.

     I tucked the paper into my pants pocket, exited through the front doors, and climbed the stairs to the parking lot. Opening the door of my red Pontiac Firebird, I slid in, pulled the seat belt around me, started the engine, and drove out of the lot onto Fifth Street. I had no idea why I fixated on this Miriam person. What made her so special puzzled me.

     As I entered the freeway onramp, my mind drifted and I lost control of the car. It veered to the right and then the left, as it bounded onto the freeway, crossing in front of the heavy flow of traffic and smashing into the center guardrail. My head hit the steering wheel and I blacked out.

     When I awoke, I found myself in a hospital bed with my head bandaged and most of my body throbbing. Through fuzzy eyes, I saw an attractive nurse staring at me.

     “Welcome back, Mr. Shelton,” she purred.

     “Back? Back from where?” I queried.

     “You’ve been in a coma for four days. You’ve got a pretty large bump on your head. We were worried about you.”

     “Am I going to die?”

     “Oh my, you were never going to die. We were just worried about how bad the head trauma was. But now that you’re talking to me, I think you’ll be fine. The doctor said the CT scan didn’t indicate major damage. However, he will have to examine you again before we can be sure everything is all right. If it is, you can then be released."

     “Nurse, do you know Miriam, the lady who works in the gift store?”

     “Why, yes. She’s been a fixture in that place for over ten years. She’s a really nice lady. Why do you ask?”

     “I met her the day of my accident. I enjoyed our brief discussion and wanted to get to know her better.”

     “I’m sure she’d be willing to drop by after her shift ends at noon. She visits patients all the time. Since the doctor won’t be in until one, I’ll ask her to come by.”

     “I really respect her for working as a volunteer. You know, with her handicap, and all.”

     “Handicap? What handicap?”

     “The braces on her legs must make it awfully hard for her to get around.”

     “Braces on her legs? Either you’re thinking of the wrong person or that hit on the head you got caused problems the doctor will need to address with you.”

     “But you did say there was a Miriam who worked in the gift shop. Didn’t you?” I asked.

     “I did. But she’s a robust woman in her early seventies and she’s not handicapped. For heavens sake, she runs marathons.”

     “Is there someone else working in the gift shop who wears braces on her legs?”

     “No, I don’t think so.”

     “Is this just my mind playing tricks on me because of the accident?”

     “I don’t know,” the nurse murmured. “You’ll have to ask the doctor.”

     “You said you would ask Miriam to come by after her shift. Could you do it now? I have to see her. I swear I’m not delusional.”

     “Okay, I’m due for a break. I’ll go down and see if she can.”

     I didn’t know what to make of all of this. I knew I’d met this woman. At least I thought I had. But did I? Then my eyes became heavy and I dozed off.

     “Ira, it’s Miriam. Miriam Rosen from the gift shop,” a voice whispered.

     A beautiful woman stood at the foot of the bed. Her silver hair flowed about her shoulders. Her smile lit me up . . . warmth ran through my body. Words could not describe how I felt. I tried to sit up to look at her legs, but with the bed flat, it was a challenge I wasn’t up to.

     “Don’t try to get up, Ira.”

     “How are your legs?” I mumbled.

     “My legs?” she said, surprised by the question.

     “The braces on them.”

     “Braces? What are you talking about?”

     “You were wearing braces when we first met. Weren’t you?”

     “First met? This is the only time I’ve ever seen you.”

     “But you look exactly like the woman I spoke to in the lobby just before my accident.”

     “I’m not sure what to say,” she murmured.

     Then a thought ran through my mind, and I spouted, “Where are my pants?”

     “I’ll look for them,” she said.

     She scanned the room and saw them on a hanger in the open closet area. She got them and handed them to me. I reached into the pocket and removed a crushed piece of paper. I flattened it out and read, “555-530-2300 . . . Miriam Rosen.”

     Then a soft voice spoke to me. “Wake up, Ira.” The nurse smiled. “The doctor will be in to see you in a few minutes. You need to be alert so he can assess your condition and decide when you can be discharged.”

     “Huh? Where’s Miriam?” I grumbled.

     “Oh, she couldn’t make it today. Possibly tomorrow, if you’re still here.”

     “But she was here. I spoke to her. Didn’t I?” I stuttered.

     “No, you couldn’t have,” the nurse stated with conviction. When I came into the room, you were sound asleep. Nobody else was here.”

     “My pants. Where are they?”

     “On the hanger in the closet. Where they’ve been since you were admitted.”

     “But that can’t be. They were on the bed.” Trembling, I just stared at her. For now, I was more confused than ever.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.