Demet Divaroren's Blog

The hospital room reeked of urine and steamed vegetables. Blue curtains separated the sick. An old woman sat up in bed, her curtain wide open like her eyes. A brown knitted vest hugged her white cotton nightie, a head scarf tied loosely around her plaited hair. She reminded me of my grandma, her features weathered by faraway places. I walked to the opposite bed where my friend Teena was connected to tubes that were flushing fluid out of her lungs. I sat next to her, tried not to stare at the pink liquid dripping into a sealed container, at her hunched shoulders sagging with frustration and fatigue.

“Um…a woman’s staring at you,” Teena whispered, her face sullen. The only thing that sparkled was the Orthodox cross around her neck.

I looked over. A smile creased the old woman’s face. “Maybe she’s lonely,” I said, waving.

“Maybe,” said Teena, lying back.

The old woman…

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