The 7th floor of the University of Chicago’s surgical waiting room has a spectacular and comprehensive view of the city north from 57th Street. Though, the term “waiting room” does not do it justice. It is bright and new and surrounded by floor to ceiling windows. I pick a window side seat and begin to survey the scene.
To the east, I can see the shell of my old training ground, Chicago Osteopathic Hospital and Clinic at 53rd and Ellis. I pan to the west and the National Guard Armory is plainly visible, then Provident Hospital comes into view. Between these lies Chicago’s skyline. It begins with Lake Point Tower on its own to the east and effectively ends with the former Sear’s Tower to the west.
Low clouds obscure O’Hare airport’s landing pattern. Chicago flattens out once west of the Chicago River. Our city, built on primordial wetlands, evolves quickly into the prairie.
Stately trees surround the large park just to my left. Many look to be elms. These have disappeared in my neighborhood due to Dutch Elm Disease. Murders of crows populate the sky above the trees. Several groups follow each other keeping a discrete distance and undulate through the tree top branches. This is the largest grouping of crows I have seen since another plague, West Nile Virus, devastated their numbers. They are strong deliberate flyers seen from seven stories up.
The city’s drama plays out below me. Pulsating red, white and blue lights approach from west and the north. I see them before I hear the sirens wail as they enter the emergency department’s entrance directly below me.
It is February’s first week. Snow covers every flat surface. The power plant straight north out the window emits multiple plumes of steam. The white curling vapors quickly fade and are strangely reassuring. They suggest warmth and stability.
Grey clouds darken as they head out over Lake Michigan. Earlier I saw a large lake freighter on its way north from the Indiana steel mills. It crept across the horizon just outside the shoreline’s ice floes. I attributed its slow progress to the large wind blown waves coming from 400 miles north.
I am here to shepherd a friend through a surgical procedure. We arrived at 10AM and left at 6:30PM. A long day but it ended well, so no complaints. The surgical center is as enormous as Lake Michigan’s waves. Standing in the middle of the pre/post surgical floor, I cannot make out the ends. It is a city block long.
Despite its size and the number of people in constant motion, it is quiet and well run. The staff is concerned and generally caring. I never have to search for the answer to a question, as they answer it before I know what to ask. Both my friend and I are retired physicians and they know this, so certain formalities are dispensed with. The correct boxes are checked, and then we are left alone to wait.
The room grows quiet, each of us with his own fears and/or remembrances. My friend breaks the silence and recollects a previous bout with general anesthesia. When it was delivered through his IV, all went blank. Nothing until he awoke: no recollections, no nothing, if that is a proper use of English. He says that is what he imagines death to be, and how he will be none the wiser, just blank.
At this, we both quiet again. He is carted down the hall a moment later. I return to the seventh floor, have a cup of tea, and resume my vigil. I brought several books and a magazine, but I find it hard to focus on anything other than the view outside the floor to ceiling windows. I am in a fishbowl looking out.
Viewed from the inside out
Sirens wail red, white, and blue -
A murder of crows.
