mirror

Musa has been on D Ward for about a week now. He's a quiet man. He spends most of his time in bed, occasionally chatting with neighbors or paying half-hearted attention to the movies we play on the TVs twice a day. He always takes the opportunity in the afternoons to go outside for some fresh air. With patients in the ICU and old ladies absconding in the night, there's enough going on around him that he manages to fade, becoming a part of the background of the ward rather one of its stars.

As I sat at the desk a couple evenings ago (not yesterday; yesterday I was too busy trying to keep the door locked and herding my lady back into her bed and cleaning up vomit and consoling yet another crying baby to pay much attention to the background), I had a quiet moment to watch Musa. He was in his bed, as usual. In front of his face, he held the mirror we give to all of our patients who have wounds they will need to care for at home.

As I watched him for what seemed like forever, he gazed at his reflection in the tiny glass. Every few seconds he would reach up with his other hand to gently touch his lip. He practiced smiling. He practiced pursing his lips, his kisses made slightly unweildy by the bandage under his nose. Mostly, though, he just looked. He couldn't take his eyes off himself.

I sat there at the desk amidst the cacophony of crying babies and laughing mamas, and I watched Musa watch himself. My roommate, who was sitting there with me, noticed my fascination. She looked too, and her eyes grew soft. How old is he? I checked my list, and my heart caught in my chest. Forty-five.

Forty-five. He's lived almost half a century with his face split wide open, shunned and ridiculed from all sides. He's avoided contact with strangers, people who would turn away from his face in horror. He's never known what it means to be normal. And now he's whole, and he can't stop looking.

I can't blame him.


addendum: This is Musa the next day, after the bandage came off his lip. He's still staring, and I still love it.