Hospitals were for sick people and people died there. I was not sick and I was not ready to die, especially in there. I was ready to go home now but that was not to be. Upon leaving the recovery room I was wheeled into a room that was already occupied by an African-American gentleman by the name of Gabe, who would be my roommate.
Needless to say, I was not in the best of moods. In fact I was despondent and depressed. Perhaps I was even borderline suicidal but Gabe was really nice and I enjoyed his company. Every negative thing I had to say he would counter with at least two positive ones. I knew I would not have recovered so well or so quickly if it wasn’t for Gabe. He always had the perfect thing to say.
There was a Bible that had been left in the room on my nightstand. I needed to kill time so I picked it up, opened it at a random place and began reading it. It was talking about angels and how God sent them to help people, not that I believed in them mind you but it helped pass the time.
Four days later the doctor released me. I said goodbye to Gabe but got no response. I pulled back the curtain that separated Gabe and myself to thank him for his company and his words of encouragement he had given me.
I was surprised to see that he was not there and his bed was neatly made. I couldn’t believe that he would leave without saying good-bye.
A nurse walked into my room at that time to take my vital signs and I asked her where Gabe was. She looked at me rather strangely and told me I was in this room by myself my entire stay.