It never feels right, being held to a specific, short time to visit. You get the reasoning behind it, you just don’t like it.

On the strike of 2pm, you pull open the double doors, too afraid to venture onto the ward before this most magic of hours. You smile inwardly, the rush of relief that you will not face the wrath of the ward sister briefly overshadowing the feeling of angst as to what awaits you in the ward today.

The now oh-so familiar, and still over-bearing, smell of hospital – that mixture of disinfectant, medicine and people – assaults your senses and you wonder if you will ever get rid of this smell from your memory.

The long corridor with its beige walls and faded green floor tiles stretches before you. Medicine and chart trolleys, the odd chair, and ward doors break the monotony of the scene before you. Nursing staff, care assistants, the odd doctor, a few visitors and the healthier patients add some semblance of life to the scene.

You enter reluctantly, not wanting to be a part of this scene, yet knowing that you cannot avoid it. While part of you wants to run away, a bigger part of you needs to get to that ward, and see with your own eyes what the day brings. You are so used to this ritual now, but it never gets easier.

You enter the 6-bed ward. The usual scene greets you. Curtains pulled firmly around 4 of the 6 beds, in a futile effort to block out the reality of their surroundings. You do what you can, each time you are here, but you know it is never enough. Because no-one can provide the relief that is so desperately wanted. No-one can make this situation better, or make it stop.

The days turn to weeks and you become familiar with the routine, the staff, the other patients, their families. Being on a first name basis with most of the staff is not something you ever thought would be possible and yet here you are. The comforts that accompany this new status bring welcome relief at times, but generally they are cold comfort for the bigger picture.

As time passes by, and your time here draws to its inevitable close, everyone comes to the same realisation, visiting hours no longer apply to you.

A bitter pill to swallow indeed.

Everyone shuts their door in the end

André Aciman

It’s firmly shut now. Its once vibrant pillar-box red now faded and peeling in parts, but yet still eye-catching. You can still see the beauty within. The years may have weathered, but it’s as if the light has never dimmed. The full effect of the passing years not fully visible.

The hinges, now still and silent, could tell a tale or two, if one was inclined to ask. But no aged hands push the door open or closed these days. No youthful fingerprints smudge the once glossy paint.

Standing on the street looking at the door, the mind can’t help but wander to times of old; happier times when the sound of laughter echoed freely in the rooms behind that red door. Happy memories of busy school mornings where the struggle to get out the door seemed impossible to achieve. Memories of the more difficult days where you struggled through the hours before you could make it safely back through that same door.

It was a beacon of welcome and of safety. Spotted from afar, you knew you were safe now. You knew the warmth of the open fire, and the welcoming aroma of fresh baking would cocoon you as soon as you stepped through that infamous door. You never felt safer than when you had passed through it.

The red door saw so much of life. Brides, babies, first days at school, college and work. Graduations, big birthdays, and retirements. It saw you through them all.

Through old age and illness, it still stood as the welcome beacon, the signal that you were home and safe.

Doctors, priests, undertakers.

Estate agents.

Locksmiths.

And for you, the door is locked forever.