It's been four months since my heart attack. In that whole time, I can probably count the times I've left this hospital room unsupervised on one hand. Four months is a pretty long time when you're left alone with your thoughts. So I've had plenty of time to come to terms with my situation. Arrhythmia. A strange word. A foreign, alien one. One that you don't want to be in the same room with. A rare condition. It causes the heart to act erratically and occasionally beat way too fast, it can be fatal. Apparently, I've had it for a long time. They said it was a miracle that I was able to go on so long without anything happening. Is that really a miracle? I guess it was supposed to make me feel better, more appreciative of my life.
It didn't do anything to cheer me up. My parents, I think, were hit harder by the news than I was. They practically had two hemorrhages apiece. I had already had a full day by then to digest everything. To them, it was all fresh. They were even willing to sell our house in order to pay for a cure, of course there isn't a cure. Because of this late discovery of this... condition, I've had to stay at the hospital, to recuperate from the treatments.
When I was first admitted, it felt as if I was missed... For about a week, my room in the ward was full of flowers, balloons and cards. But, the visitors soon dwindled and all the get well gifts began trickling down to nothing shortly after. I realized that the only reason I had gotten so many cards and flowers was because sending me their sympathy had been turned into a class project. Maybe some people were genuinely concerned, but I doubt it. Even in the beginning, I had barely had visitors. By the end of the first month, only my parents came by on a regular basis..... Cassandra was the last to stop visiting. After six weeks, I never saw her again. We never had that much to talk about when she visited, anyway.We didn't touch the subject that was between us on that snowy day ever again.
This hospital, It's not really a place I'd like to live in. The doctors and nurses feel so impersonal and faceless. I guess it's because they are in a hurry and they have a million other patients waiting for them, but it makes me feel so uncomfortable. For the first month or so, I asked the head cardiologist every time I saw him for a rough estimate of when I'd be able to leave, he never answered anything in a straightforward way. Btu he told me to wait and see if the treatment and surgeries worked. So, I idly observed the scar that those surgeries had left on my chest slowly change its appearance over time, thing of it as some kind of omen.
At some point I stopped watching TV. I don't know why, I just did. Maybe it was the wrong kind of escapism for my situation. I started reading instead. There was a small "Library" at the hospital, although it was more like a storeroom for books. I began working my way through it, one small stack at a time. After consuming them, I would go back for more. I found that I liked reading and I think I even became a bit addicted to it. I started to feel naked without a book in my hands. But I loved stories. That was what my life was like. The days became increasingly harder to distinguish from each other, differing only by the book I was reading and the weather outside. It felt like the time blurred into some kind of gooey mass I was trapped inside, instead of moving within.