A Despatch from the Medico-Institutional Frontier

Papa is not home yet after all, and though he might have shown up on our apartment building stoop in the taxi around the same time as I reached the hospital, I decided to venture forth in case he was still there.

In the bag: a draft contribution to a periodical plus a lot of extra paper which had ventured into the pile, a magnifying glass for the infinitesimal print, two issues of the computer magazine CT, the newest Manière de voir (a magazine which comprises selections from the Monde diplomatique archive on a particular theme) still in its wrappings.

What I had not brought were the lab books of two of his tutoring students, which he rather touchingly wanted to correct so that it would be ready in good time for them. At least he isn't out of touch with his colleagues; he telephoned with two of them, which must have been fun: 'So, I have a really good reason for not showing up to work today.' . . .

On the whole I am fairly oblivious to symptoms of illness in other people and decided to treat my visit as dropping by and not as a medical inquiry. It felt like the right course, though visiting someone in the hospital and not asking about symptoms or about the hospital itself sounds weird; and though we both pitched conversational tidbits equally Papa didn't raise these subjects. My impressions were that Papa seemed tired and though he could walk well was still a little unsteady (since his balance had been physiologically affected). To be really frank he had a rather forlorn air. His interest in the field of medicine (balanced or fed by a horror of consulting doctors) had seemingly drooped in the institutional environment; rather than making philosophical observations he clearly really does not want to be there and would greatly prefer to convalesce at home and get back to work.

As for the hospital itself, it has a splendid view of the Berlin skyline, is conveniently located off the U Bahn line that runs past our block, and I thought the atmosphere was good. I checked in at the front desk, a dimly lit room in which two more or less disgruntled people peacefully sat, then took the elevator to the relevant floor; then checked in as advised with the nurse at that station's desk to see whether his room was still the same. He is in an oblong room with two other beds, in which two miserable and inert-looking individuals also lay; there are blue lockers for cleaning or other equipment at the door and tucked in that corner a sink surrounded by a white shower curtain with a monotint winter tree and geese motif; the bed was no massive electrically manoeuverable thingamajig but simply a bed; and there was a nightstand beside it with a foldable tray upon which one could eat, but preferably not cut anything more resistant than a piece of cheese, because putting pressure on it makes it bend like Anna Pavlova. In the aisle at the feet of the beds, there was also a table where Papa could likewise eat.

So we chatted along in the room and then wandered out into the lounge, which is an oblonger windowed room with a plain white table and padded blue chairs where one can eat or talk or read. Papa did have a copy of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung to read, by the way, so he improved on my small elucidations of current events where he already has, to use the delightful German expression, his nose in the wind.

***

As for the Berlin city elections, do I feel guilty for not having voted? — Yes. — Did I feel I was well enough informed to make a responsible decision, rather than going with my gut? — No. I did the Wahl-o-Mat and it left me even more confused; for most of the issues I had to vote "neutral" because I had no idea what the projected consequences or the philosophical underpinnings were. As it is, I was politically scattered between the SPD, Grüne and Linke; fortunately, except for the CDU voting bloc and the people who voted for the Piratenpartei, it appears I had this befuddlement in common with the Berlin population in macrocosm.