the room was empty, so i grabbed a chair and decided to do my assessment charting in room 2.

as far as i know, the last patient who died there was P. a young man in his 20s who had lymphoma. he was disturbingly thin and depressed, as expected. i remember looking at him, with his bones sticking out everywhere, looking like he was going to crack any minute. it was not unusual to take care of him the whole shift and not hear a single word of response. he had one of those speaking valves on top of his tracheostomy, but he never bothered to talk. it wasn’t that he didn’t have the energy, he was just wasting away, and understandably, he didn’t really feel like chatting endlessly.

i was about halfway done when i heard a familiar sound. i can’t write the exact sound, but it was the kind you hear when somebody in bed was tossing and turning. foolish as it may sound, i was expecting to see something or somebody scary, so i slooooowly, turned my head to confirm.

of course there was no one there. except me.  

i convinced myself it was just my imagination. i had that uncomfortbale feeling in my gut, but i forced myself to ignore it. i scolded myself for being such a wimp, and decided i was just tired. after all, i wasn’t in the famous haunted room.

then it happened again. and again. and again. until i got used to it. it came to a point where i turned around and stupidly smiled at the bed, imagining him lying there, staring blankly, too depressed to talk.

i was expecting a camera crew to tell me i was punked or something. i was tempted to tell the new patient to be careful, because P might not like the idea of of sharing his bed with a total stranger.

i realized how bizarre that thought was, but hey, it was midnight, and things like that happen.

maybe in my head.
or maybe, for real.