The patient in the first room looked dead.
That's what I hate about the ICU. The stale air reeking of something awful, something dead, and the steady beeps of various machines all serve as reminders that human life in inextricably fragile.
I was terrified walking down that corridor. My father had already mentally prepared and warned us, so I suppose the blow was somewhat softened, but nevertheless, seeing him made it all seem like a ghastly nightmare.
But even the word nightmare can't describe how seeing him in that state felt. His face was grossly distorted and disproportionate to the rest of his body. His cheeks were sunken in -- his facial structure looked hollow underneath his gaunt visage. His eyes, normally so vibrant and joyful, were squeezed shut in pain. When they were open, the irises were surrounded by a ring of gray-blue, which came from the smoky haziness in which he was living. His cheeks and area above his upper lip were marred by blood. (Later I found out that his skin had become so sensitive that when they peeled off the medical tape, the skin came right off with it.)
These observations didn't inundate me all at once on that first visit. No, a new sight struck me each time I went in, and gradually all of them culminated into a bitter denouement of horror and pity.
But the blood and gauntness weren't quite the worst of it. I nearly lost what minimal composure I possessed as I saw tubes in passages that should have been clear and unblocked. There was one running up through his right nostril, and a relatively large one in his mouth that traveled down his throat down to his stomach. It was kept in place by two binding strips of medical tape in an X stretching from one cheek to the other. Another tube traveled through his neck where his hospital gown had slipped down to reveal bony, thin shoulders that had once been broad and strong.
Seeing your loved one in a state as critical as that must be the hardest visual tragedy to comprehend, not only because you feel pity for what he has to endure, but because it drastically alters what previous image you held of him. Seeing my grandfather -- the man who had run a 100-meter dash in 11 seconds in high school, competed in the Olympics, and cultivated thousands of prized orchids -- in that condition completely shattered the mental image I had of him. He was supposed to be lively and always ready to tell a good joke, not tied down to a hospital bed, crippled and helpless.