When I was coming out of a painkiller-induced stupor, I had a couple of visitors to my bedside. My parents. My father died in 1984 and my mother in 1998. Yes, I readily agree that this vision could have been directly attributed to the powerful narcotics pulsing through my veins, melding my consciousness into some sort of surreal dreamworld. But this vision was seamlessly sewn into a visit by a nurse. I confirmed with her later that she did indeed come into my room at that moment.
My parents stood by my bedside. My father was wearing a dark blue suit -- not the one we buried him in. My mother wore her best flowery Sunday dress -- the one we DID bury her in. My father asked how I was feeling. Mother just looked upon my face with motherly concern as she placed a cold hand on my face.
I told them that I was in great pain, but that I was alive and that I would recover. They both smiled and nodded. Then my father looked toward the door and said they had to go. And in that instant, they faded away, replaced by a swinging door and a nurse coming to check on me.
This was not my only experience. I also sensed that many of the people I saw wandering around the corridors as an orderly wheeled me to another painful bout with the physical therapist were really dead. They had a far away look in their eyes. The hospital gowns they wore barely hung on their flaccid bodies. I once asked an orderly if he knew the man wandering the hall in front of us, but he seemed not to seen anyone before us. However, he did manage to miss all of them -- of course, none appeared to be directly in our way.
I suspect many dead wander the halls of hospitals. What a treat it would be to investigate in an active hospital.
That is all for now. I shall post later this week after physical therapy.