The Ward

Through blurry eyes, the sign read: "Comma Ward". Mentally, I see a semicolon having colon reassignment surgery, when complications arise, it needs an emergency dottectomy.

"it's a 'comman' occurrence." I must have said it out loud.

"What is?" my brother Stan asked.

"I misread that sign..." I started to explain, "never mind. You wouldn't find it funny." I'm told that I have a strange sense of humor.

"True. I wouldn't." Stan and I had never really gotten along. After 72 hours in waiting rooms, sterile hallways, and hospital commissaries, getting a grand sum of zero answers, robs most people of their funny bone. In Stan's case, he didn't have one to begin with.

My other brother Darrell had been in a car crash, ironically, clipped by a drunk driver. Darrell had been dry for 17 months, which is probably the longest stretch he'd been without liquor, not counting most of his elementary school career. When he was sober, he was loving, thoughtful, and one of the funniest guys I'd ever met. But nothing I did or said could keep him from crawling into the bottle. His wife taking their son back down to LA, however, did.

"Is Mary coming up?" I asked

"She has work, so she says." Stan said taking the last pull on his coffee. "Look, I'm going back to the hotel. Call me?"

"Yeah, you bet." He knew I meant, "Screw you!"

Several hours later, the doctor came out. "Mr. Dempsy?"

"Yes?"

"Your brother is awake. You can see him now, if you'd like."

Relief. The almost regrets and guilt-ridden excuses cataloged for future redemption. We sat and talked quietly.

"Where do they have me?"

"The Comma Ward." I told him he was lucky he didn't need a dottectomy.

He laughed weakly. "Chiefy, leave my colon alone!"