Good morning, everybody.
My brother was in the hospital. My mom and I were in the room with him. The room was barren, with drab, greenish grey lighting, white floors and walls, and the white bed. My mom and I may have sat in a couple of chairs. There may have been one or two cluttered bags, maybe of my brother's possessions, near my mom and I or in a corner of the room.
My brother must have been healing from whatever he'd gone through. Whatever he'd gone through must have included some sort of psychological issue. But now he'd also calmed down from that psychological issue. He seemed to be physically and mentally stable. It was a real relief.
But then something started going wrong. My brother was having some sort of episode -- maybe he was getting really nervous, or maybe his body was starting to go into convulsions. This may have been because he needed to take medicine and he hadn't taken it in a while. Or it may have been because I myself had given him a bad pill that had thrown him off his psychological balance.
I ran out into the hallway to get a nurse. I knew that a nurse could probably take care of this situation, even though I felt like my brother, who had seemed so close to going home, would now have to stay at the hospital a while longer, to get his balance back.
I had gone down to the end of the hallway, and now I was turned around and walking back toward the hospital room. I was walking with a pretty nurse who was dressed in the stereotypical white cloth, sexy-nurse-style dress and hat. The hallway wasn't wide, but it felt spacious. Windows ran all the way along the right wall, letting in a good amount of natural light. And there was a lot of activity: doctors and nurses, and maybe patients, walking back and forth and taking care of duties.
The nurse and I were speaking about my mother -- apparently my mother, not my brother, was now the patient, though this didn't seem to register with my dreaming mind. I was criticizing my mother for not having done something to keep healthy. The nurse was agreeing with me. The nurse confided to me that if my mother didn't XXXXX, she'd either be in the hospital for longer than she wanted to be, or else she'd be back in the hospital sooner than she thought.
I hadn't realized, but we'd been talking about all this stuff as we'd approached very close to my mom's hospital room. The door to my mom's room was open, too. I thought there was no way my mom couldn't have heard everything the nurse and I had been saying.
We opened the door (???) -- my mom was inside, thrashing around on the bed. My mom was flailing around upside-down in the bed -- her head at the foot of the bed. She had the sheets jammed up over her head. Two nurses were struggling with my mom, maybe trying to restrain her or calm her down. The sheet came down from my mom's head. Her head was huge, and her eyes bulged out of the sides of her head, like fish eyes or alien eyes.
We walked into the room -- again, as if what had just happened hadn't really happened. The door was wide open. My mom was sitting in a chair, wearing a hospital gown. Either two nurses or a nurse and my brother or just my brother were rubbing lotion on my mom's legs. The part of my mom's lap that wasn't getting lotion was covered in a pine-green blanket of rough fabric.
My mom looked at me, not angrily, but a little ruefully. She'd caught me saying something bad about her. She was a little offended by what I'd said. But she seemed to be more occupied in finding a way to use what I'd said to make me feel guilty, rather than getting herself too upset over it. She gave me a steady look from under a furrowed brow and said something to me that made me feel very bad about myself, like I'd really screwed something up beyond repair, either because of the statement I'd made or because of having forgotten to do something hospital-related for my mother.