Through the Gauzy Shades

My wife had some surgery very early in the morning this past Friday. It was performed at St. Elizabeth's Hospital. As she was wheeled into the operating room, I was directed to the surgical lobby. This 1958 modern, boat shaped addition to the front of the original hospital looked much the same as it had through the 40 something years my father was on the hospital's dental staff. Not much had changed. It is a huge space that defines kitsch. It had the same Crucifix, the same 1950's style furniture, the same reception desk, the same wall clock. The elevators to the rest of the hospital were a marvel of lights on a panel showing which of the many elevators was on which floor, a technological wonder. The only thing missing was Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey.

Of course now they had several televisions connected to the myriad of channels offered by Time Warner Cable. I took a seat so I could watch one of them awaiting the completion of the surgery. But the seats close to that particular television were filled, so I took a seat against the wall so I could watch at a distance. Next to the television, however, was one of the many mammoth picture windows overlooking Belmont Avenue, the main drag. The glare from the windows was cut by translucent vertical blinds that gave the windows the appearance of being covered by gauze. Instead of watching the television, I found myself looking into the very gray, cold and rainy autumn morning through the picture windows and those gauzy shades. And through those gauzy shades, I was transported.

When I was small, my father took me with him to do his rounds, and I waited for him in that lobby. Now the gauzy shades made the lobby comfort food. It was warm and safe like when I was 10 years old. Through the gauzy shades, the street was the same now as then. The 1950's buildings on the corner were filled with doctors, drugstores and fast food grills. The demolished mansion that served as the St. E's nursing school still stood directly across the street from the lobby. The memorial benefactor plaque next to the main entrance, dated 1960, listed companies and people who donated to build the lobby. You could see all of them through the gauzy shades, although in harsh reality, most of the people and companies are long gone.

Through the gauzy shades my family was alive. The drizzly morning reminded me of past Thanksgivings when I would wait for my father to finish his rounds so we could go to whichever relative was brave enough to serve Thanksgiving dinner. They were all there, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins. It was a different time and place through the gauzy shades. And next to me, for the first time since he died, I sensed my father's presence in one of the places he loved the most. He was there, too, through the gauzy shades.

Looking through those gauzy shades was eerily and scarily addicting. I tried to scoop up as much of the comfort as I was able. I stared through those gauzy shades for close to an hour before the hustle and bustle of the lobby overshadowed the view. The television was playing the Regis show. One family was obviously getting bad news about a loved one. Another family got some good news. Hospital employees were streaming into work. The presence of my Dad gradually faded away, and I was back to today.

Maybe we would all be better off with the glare of life filtered by some gauzy shades. Then again, maybe not.