Stardate: 3/25/2008 HospitaliZed.

A's daughter V came home from school two Mondays ago complaining of a pain in her heart. With skyrocketing and plummeting heart rates, she was taken by ambulance to the local children's hospital called something like, "Children's Hospital 23." Various tests were run and doctors were seen with a range of interesting diagnoses that in sum came to "she's growing and this is natural," but we have to keep her here for ten days and run a bunch of tests. I don't understand any of it actually, but it all makes me very nervous about the care she is receiving...

Last Friday night, A and her husband had to run V's dinner to her (you may remember in my last post that food and bed linens are not provided by the hospitals). I was with them, because we were going to the grocery store afterward. A asked me to come in and I thought it would be nice to see V and wish her well. It was a drizzly, chilly night and we jogged to the door. Upon entry, A warned me not to speak English. I was mildly surprised, hm... We entered an old building like so many other buildings built in Kharkiv; most of which date to the 1940's and 50's, because they were built just after Kharkiv was repeatedly bombed out by the Germans and Soviets in their to and forth land battles that raged in this area (almost the entire city was leveled). It had tall, 18 feet tall narrow doors with only one side open; the other side was permanently locked. The dingy walls were plaster with chipped areas painted over in the passage of time. These shabby, discolored walls were once all painted white-medicinal white that was not so crisp now- or unappealing brown. Naked light bulbs hung from electric cords of differing lengths from the ceiling; some dusty bulbs were burnt out. This initial description holds true throughout.

We turned a corner after entering to see a nurse's table located at the perpendicular intersection of the 2 hallways. This nurse's station consisted of a table and a chair. There were some papers on the table, but it appeared less a "desk" than a kitchen table where mom was doing the bills. The nurse inquired briefly of A and V about their purpose and I was silent, so the nurse didn't think to interfere or disbelieve A's explanation about me. Apparently, I had suddenly become a family member.

We had to take off our jackets and put on little shoe covers before proceeding into the ward. A was all a twitter enjoying our breaking of unnecessary rules. I was just beginning to grasp that I would not be permitted to enter if I were not directly related (I didn't get all the Russian spoken to the nurse, so it was just dawning on me). A quickly ushered me down the narrow, dimly lit hallway with a row of out-moded and uncomfortable, chipped wooden theater seats attached to one wall toward the ward where we encountered her daughter who had come down to see us. Her daughter greeted me in English. Fearful that the nurse would overhear, A shooed us up the stairs to the ward where V was interred. The stairs were dark, uneven, dirty and a bit scary.

We got upstairs and the ward looked to me as though I had just time traveled into the 1960's. When you walked down the narrow, dingy hall, you could see all these little rooms to the side stuffed with rumpled beds. It looked like it was right out of a movie like "One Flew Over a Cuckoo's Nest." It was so unreal with the various rooms crammed with little twin beds and piles of personal belongings jam-packed into nooks and crannies. The bed frames had graffiti carved on them from myriad generations of those under 18. There were no entertainment devices, desks, chairs, closets, play areas, common areas, etc. Another nurse's station, like the one on the first floor was there. The only exception was that this nurse was a little more serious or astute. She quickly realized that something was up with me. A said something to her and told me in English to follow her. The nurse said something to me in Russian, which made me pause and look questioningly at them all. A said "Kate, come with me." Momentarily, I tried to protest, but I realized that A always has my back, so even if the nurse didn't want me to go, I had to go. I went. A told me to look closely at the rooms. It was important to her that I see the living conditions for this state-run hospital. Like a witness, she wanted me to see the nasty side tables that were to be shared by inmates with their belongings packed like teenagers' closets. She wanted me to see that the food items of each inmate were left there without cleaning if the inmate or family didn't clean them. She wanted me to see the close quarters and the lack of medical equipment. But I also saw through the glass three little children in the next room, standing on a bed, three little heads huddled together over a book, whispering intently. I wonder what they were reading?

There was something in all this that was so communal and human. It wasn't isolated and private in any way. It was like these kids were at summer camp in a dark, old dormitory.

The nurse chased us down in a jiffy, and I felt badly that we were getting the inmates all stirred up when they were sick-some perhaps seriously sick. I went to leave the room with A citing all the meanness of the hospital conditions and all I could think to do was to wave at the 3 kids gazing curiously at us in the glass. I don't know if they waved back.

We were unceremoniously booted out of the ward and relegated back to the hard, wooden theatrical seating in the first floor hallway. Apparently, those seats were the visiting room. We sat all lined up in a rigid row with V and asked her the usual questions about her health and spirits. She kept repulsing her parents overly concerned comments or reprimands and asked me about Maddy and Patrick. Maddy made her some cards to raise her spirits and thankfully I remembered to bring them. You'd really need something like that in a place like Children's Hospital #23.