Internal A

At seven o'clock in the morning, I leaned back in my armchair, trying to fall asleep after a sleepless night. On the hospital bed, my father's breathing was more even, his hands clasped over his chest, and the IV line connected to the infusion pump had become silent.

(AI)

At seven o'clock in the morning, I leaned back in my armchair, trying to fall asleep after a sleepless night. On the hospital bed, my father's breathing was more even, his hands clasped over his chest, the IV line connected to the syringe pump now quiet, no longer writhing with the rapid, labored breaths of the night before. For over two years, despite my heart aching to see his health gradually decline due to heart failure and pulmonary edema, I still jokingly suggested, "Why don't you just move your residency to Ward A, Dad?" He gave a wry smile – a lingering effect from a mild stroke!

Still unable to sleep, perhaps due to excessive coffee consumption last night. Pushing open the door to the hallway, the old aluminum door creaked against the tiled floor. The Internal Medicine Department A of the Provincial General Hospital, dedicated to Vietnamese Heroic Mothers and those who contributed to the revolution, was built in the late twentieth century and now showed signs of deterioration in some areas. Most patients are elderly and require long hospital stays, so the department is accommodating, allowing family members to set up folding chairs for them to rest. That's good enough, far better than the miserable days spent in hospitals in Saigon. It seems that only this remote southwestern border province has an Internal Medicine Department A. And rightly so, Tay Ninh has been through a period of both resistance wars and border wars – nowhere else has been as fierce and sacrificial as this land of abundant sunshine and heavy rain.

Somewhere amidst the commotion, the loud voice of Dr. Hue, the head of the department, boomed. Suddenly, I burst out laughing. It seemed the old woman had made a mistake; she should have been a man, and a man of some stature at that. No one would think she was a doctor if she weren't wearing that white lab coat and stethoscope around her neck. Whenever there was an emergency, her voice became even sharper, her orders decisive, and the nurses rushed about frantically. The entire three-story department only had four doctors and a dozen nurses, so sometimes she even took patients' blood pressure readings and attached nebulizer masks. Like last night, my father's shortness of breath made him arch forward, his face pale. The nurse attached the syringe, and she stood beside him, gently patting his shoulder like a close friend: "With Hue here, you can rest assured. We're communists, after all; we can overcome any difficulty. Keep trying!" Direct, but skilled and enthusiastic, she wrote her phone number on each patient's door. That's why there was an old man who, whenever he was transferred from the Emergency Department to Internal Medicine A, would call: "Hue, I'm in pain again, come and see what's wrong with me!", even if it was midnight and she was already on duty. My boss said she was the daughter of a fallen soldier, studied with him at the Military Academy, graduated as a regular doctor, and worked in Saigon or in the provinces, often being called back to work.

The loud, clear voices still echoed from room 7 opposite – a single room, usually reserved for Vietnamese Heroic Mothers and female patients. In Ward A, it had almost become a routine, like one big family. Long-time caregivers like me, doctors, and nurses all considered themselves part of the ward, helping with this and that was commonplace. I was about to go over to see what was happening, but Dr. Hue had already left.

"Look at this, it's Aunt Tư's!" she said, spreading out her hand to show me a small piece of calendar paper rolled up and twisted at both ends.

- She secretly smoked, and when I went into the examination room, I could smell the foul odor. She had tuberculosis but kept secretly smoking. I threatened to take pictures and report it to the District Party Committee, so she handed over the "evidence." And where did Hung go? I warned him to keep an eye on the old woman; what kind of sick person is he, for heaven's sake...?

Before she could finish her sentence, she quickly turned away, hurrying when she saw the Emergency Department nurse transferring a new patient into the Internal Medicine A reception room. I looked in that direction; on the stretcher, an old man with a long, white beard like a "fairy godmother," in a faded police uniform, lay drowsily.

"Has Hue left yet?" - Aunt Tu stepped out the door and glanced down the hallway.

"You've already admitted the patient, why are you looking for more information, ma'am? Are you going to submit some more 'insider' information?" I asked sarcastically, half-jokingly, half-seriously.

Honestly, I'm dying to smoke, but they keep trying to confiscate my cigarettes!

Everyone in this ward, from doctors to nurses and even those who have been hospitalized and caring for patients for many years, knows Aunt Tư. She spends eleven months of the twelve months of the year in the hospital, sometimes just feeling a little unwell and immediately going to the Inpatient Department. At first, I thought Hung was Aunt Tư's son, but after spending more time here and there, I realized he was a neighbor, someone who felt sorry for the old woman living alone and took the time to care for her. I don't know when exactly, but he started calling her "Aunt" and referring to himself as "son." His parents died early, and he had no wife or children. Aunt Tư's husband died during the "clinging to the enemy's waist to fight" campaign in the Trảng Lớn American-killing perimeter; her son Hai followed in his footsteps, joining the main force and dying in Long An , his remains still missing; her sons Ba and Tư – one nineteen and the other seventeen – died in the battle of the 20th Battalion against Trường Lưu and Trường Đức, just four days before liberation.

The war ended so long ago, there are no more tears left to shed, but my mother still cries, sobs in her heart, sharp, agonizing pains in her chest. Every night, as she closes her eyes, she hears a familiar knocking at the door, a faint call of "Grandma!", "Mom!" from afar... She jumps up, gently opening the door—as she had done decades ago. There's no one there, only the sound of the wind and the rustling of the bamboo grove.

The year after his death, my mother was distraught. Opening the chest, she pulled out his clothes, still feeling the salty scent of sweat, the astringent taste of the earth, the bitter taste of forest leaves... It seemed something was still missing. Running down to the kitchen, she opened the rice jar, searched for the packet of tobacco she had bought to send to her husband, broke off a piece, spread it evenly on a piece of paper, and awkwardly rolled it into a cigarette. Sitting on the ground, one hand still clutching the clothes, the other holding the oil lamp to light the cigarette. Before she could take a puff, she bent over and coughed violently. Yes, that strong, pungent smell on his lips, on his hands. She braced herself, tears welling up, trying to take each puff, the smoke swirling around the oil lamp flame, flickering the image of her husband in his worn uniform, his AK rifle resting loosely on his knee. He sat there, staring at her, his gaze fixed!

My mother became addicted to tobacco from that night onwards. In the middle of the night, her eyes would dart towards the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of my father's figure in the hazy smoke. In the past, she would break off a pinch of tobacco, put it on a rolling pin, roll it into a ball, and light it with a crackling sound; now that she has cigarettes, which are easier to roll, she smokes even more.

In the Inner Chamber, Mom managed to get a little sleep. Hung grumbled, "The other room has air conditioning, Mom, it smells awful from smoking. You have tuberculosis, smoking will kill you quickly, what good does it do you to keep smoking? Besides, the hospital has 'no smoking' signs everywhere, don't you see them?" At those times, she would just lie there silently, staring blankly at the ceiling. But sometimes she would sigh and say, "I wish I could go down and meet him and your brothers soon! God is so cruel, making me live until now. Honestly!"

Not smoking inside the room, she hunched over, fumbling her way outside to a stone bench under the breadfruit trees to smoke. Taking a few puffs to ease the bland taste, she stubbed out the cigarette, wrapping the cigarette butt in a calendar page to save for later. The packs of Hero cigarettes she bought before going to the Intensive Care Unit, Hung had hidden away. She only had a few left, stored in her medicine box, so she had to be frugal. Sister Hue knew, and so did Doctor Dai, Doctor Trang, Doctor Tim, and the nurses… but they didn't dare stop her.

My father is feeling a little better; he really wants to go home, Tet (Lunar New Year) is almost here. Sister Hue said that he should wait until he's completely recovered before being discharged from the hospital, so he can celebrate Tet with peace of mind. In the mornings, he hobbles to find Uncle Ba Khoẻ to have tea and reminisce about the old days in the Đồng Pal forest. These past few days the weather has suddenly turned cold, and the shrapnel still lodged in his knee is causing Uncle Ba pain, making him grimace and sweat bead on his forehead. But every day, at 6 o'clock, he hobbles out of his room to the hallway, carrying a thermos to get hot water and make tea. When my father's illness worsens, Uncle Ba comes over, sits by the edge of the bed, shakes my father's hand, and says, "Hang in there, man! Even with B52 carpet bombing and collapsed bunkers, you didn't die, let alone... Hang in there!" That's all he does, then he quietly sits alone at the tea table, turning the tuner on his old National radio, still in its original cloth cover and with its strap. My father told me it was a reward Uncle Ba Khoẻ received for being a "Hero of the Anti-American Struggle," and it runs on three batteries.

Lately, I've noticed my father, Mr. Ba Khoẻ, smiles less than before. I wondered why, and he sighed, "Think about it, a hero who fought against the Americans, and now his youngest daughter has married and is living in enemy territory. Although things are different now, and grudges have faded, it's still unpleasant to hear, isn't it?" I didn't think so; I believed he missed his youngest daughter. She was so far away, perhaps he was afraid that when he closed his eyes for the last time, he wouldn't get to see the daughter whose face was exactly like his late wife's when she was young.

Since the province equipped each ward with a DVB-T2 digital terrestrial television, Ward A of the hospital is no longer so desolate. One end shows English Premier League football, the other shows the Road to Vietnamese Traditional Singing... it resembles a nursing home more than a hospital. In the middle of the night, a patient's condition worsens, and Doctor Dai, sweating profusely, performs emergency procedures, issuing orders to suction phlegm. The small nurse, tiptoeing, painstakingly inserts the tube. Suddenly, on the TV, the commentator shouts: "Goal! It's a goal, ladies and gentlemen! Manchester United's $97 million striker Lukaku has placed the ball past Arsenal's $17 million goalkeeper Petr Cech to open the scoring..."

Upon hearing the news, Ms. Hue immediately convened a meeting of both family members and patients, requesting that after 9 PM, the TV volume be adjusted to a comfortable level; family members should not allow patients to watch TV too late at night;... Mr. Hung explained: "My mother is a little hard of hearing, and watching traditional Vietnamese opera at such a low volume isn't enjoyable, Ms. Hue, please understand!" Mr. Nam from room 9 frowned: "I can't sleep, all I can do is watch TV, Hue! And I have to watch to know what's happening in our province. If I stay here all the time, when I go back after April 30th, I'll think I'm lost because the government has expanded the roads so much!"...

The meeting ended, and the resolution was to turn the TV down. Ms. Hue shook her head and smiled: "You see, I'm worried about the ladies and gentlemen staying up late and affecting their health, so I'm reminding them... But it's tough, they're old now, it's hard to sleep!"

Passing by Mr. Ba Khoẻ's room, I could faintly hear Thanh Ngân's voice from the National radio:

"I escorted the group of soldiers across the river."

The boatwoman told me the story of the girl.

I asked: What is that girl's name?

She pointed to the wildflower.

I asked, "What kind of flowers are they?", and she replied, "They're bought flowers!"

I just made a joke by accident:

"Who would bother to buy a wild flower?"

Tomorrow is the 15th day of the 12th lunar month. At noon, after returning from work and just unpacking my backpack, my father jumped up: "Remember to prune the apricot blossoms, son, Tet is coming soon!" I mumbled in response and slumped back in my armchair. Looking back, since graduating and starting work, I've been like a moth drawn to a flame, constantly rushing into a life of struggle and competition. Our house was like a rented room; I'd leave in the morning and return in the evening, eat quickly, and then sleep soundly. Ultimately, I didn't know what I was living for. It's been almost twenty years since I suddenly remembered that every year, precisely on the 30th day of the lunar month, the three apricot blossom trees my grandmother planted in front of the house would burst into bloom, basking in the sun, thanks to my father pruning their leaves on the 15th day of the lunar month as she instructed. Without him home, the three overgrown trees, left unpruned, and the potted plants withered and died from lack of watering.

"Remember to prune the leaves of the apricot blossom tree, son!" my father reminded me.

"I don't have time to pick them up myself. I'll hire someone to do it tomorrow; I'm too tired right now," I said, pulling my headscarf up to cover my face. I heard my father sigh, the shuffling of his slippers, the creaking of the old aluminum door scraping against the tiled floor. I knew my father was sad, but the feeling of exhaustion seemed to spread through every fiber of my being. I needed sleep, even if it was just a nap. It was too chaotic outside; only Grandma A's place seemed peaceful.

As Tet approached, the weather cooled considerably, and the midday sun wasn't too harsh. Just as I was dozing off, Sister Hue burst into the room, slapped me on the shoulder, and exclaimed, "You little devil, it's not even 11:30 yet! Who gave you permission to spread out a folding chair and lie down in the hospital room? Get up and help me find Aunt Tu; she's disappeared!"

The entire ward was in chaos; patients spilled out into the corridors, creating a commotion. Relatives scattered, some rushing to Ward B, others asking security at the gate. Ms. Hue, normally as calm as a man when fighting for her life against death, now had red, teary eyes. Doctors Dai, Trang, and Tim frantically ran around Ward A, up and down several floors... but still couldn't find her.

The phone rang, and Ms. Hue awkwardly reached into her blouse pocket to answer it.

"Mr. Hung called and said Aunt Tu didn't come home. Where did she go?" she said, without looking at anyone, her eyes fixed on the hospital gate.

Mr. Ba Khoẻ limped along the corridor, almost running, followed by a young woman with long, flowing hair: "Slow down, Dad, your leg hurts!" "Leave me alone, it's urgent, no need to slow down!" Mr. Ba snapped. The girl remained silent, bowing her head as she followed him.

- I see her, Hue! Mrs. Tu is downstairs!

"Where down, Uncle?" Huê asked urgently, holding onto Uncle Ba's shoulder, afraid he might fall. "And who is this? Is this your youngest daughter?"

- Yeah, he just came to visit me. I told him to go back to America, but he wouldn't leave! And Mrs. Tư lives down there, near the hospital's morgue.

To put it elegantly, it's the morgue, but in simpler, more rustic terms, it's the morgue. It's a small, secluded building in a quiet corner of the hospital grounds. That somber atmosphere is only occasionally disturbed by cries of grief or calls to the dead. And nobody understands why, despite her mobility issues, Aunt Tư would go all the way down there! Sister Huê and Doctor Trang hurried towards the morgue, while Hùng pushed the wheelchair behind them. Finding it slow, he folded it up and ran. My father and Uncle Ba Khỏe followed.

Aunt Tư sat on a stone bench next to a low, dark plum tree whose leaves had just been pruned. She held a broom made of reeds, her eyes gazing up at the intensely blue sky. I stood silently – remember to prune the plum tree's leaves on the full moon day; my grandmother had told me to, and my father had done the same for decades.

Without saying a word, Ms. Hue took the broom from Mrs. Tu's hand, bent down to sweep, and gathered the fallen leaves into a pile. Mr. Hung helped his mother into the wheelchair, and she smiled: "I'm sad, so I wandered around looking at the sky and the earth. It's strange, this big hospital doesn't have many apricot trees, only this one? It's the full moon already, and no one even remembers to prune its leaves anymore!"

"Mom is still tired, and she's gone too far. If anything happens to her, who knows how to save her in time!" Hung complained, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead, which was marked with the lines of time.

I'm fine now!

"Yes, Mom, you're fine, let's go back to the ward!" - Ms. Hue pushed the wheelchair, trying to be as gentle as possible. The asphalt road around the hospital grounds was rough in places due to age.

"Why do we have to pluck the leaves from the apricot blossom tree on the 15th day of the 12th lunar month, Dad?" the young girl with long, flowing hair asked, shaking Mr. Ba Khoẻ's hand as she helped him walk.

"So that the apricot blossoms bloom in time for Tet, of course! You've only been in America for a year or two and you've already forgotten? And what's the point of remembering? There are no apricot blossoms in America to pluck the leaves from!" Uncle Ba grumbled, still seemingly angry, but he let his youngest daughter help him. His old eyes suddenly brightened, no longer dull and gloomy like the previous days.

On the night of the full moon, perfectly round and hanging in the sky, it seems like a long time since I've had such a complete moment with the moon. In this fast-paced life, the frantic rush of making a living, people long to slow down, to let go of the burdens they've placed upon themselves. Perhaps it's not easy, but it's not difficult either; it just requires pausing for a moment, enjoying what's familiar, what might seem like a waste of effort, commonplace, or old-fashioned... and yet, it brings a sense of peace to the heart.

"Come in, sir, it's time for me to lock the ward door," the tall nurse, whom my father often praised for her skillful vein-drawing, whispered. I smiled and hurried inside. From within the intensive care unit, a hoarse, indistinct voice echoed:

"...Western Truong Son Mountains, I'm going there."

I feel sorry for you, I feel sorry for you, it rains a lot over there.

The road where the rice carrier

Mosquitoes fly through the old forest, making the sleeves of your shirt longer.

"If there's no one else, will you marry me?"

The elderly police officer, with his long, white beard, who had been brought to the ward just a few days ago, narrowly escaped death this morning and was now humming a tune. His arms, still dangling from the cardiopulmonary bypass machine, gestured wildly in the air as if performing before thousands of spectators, his voice powerful and resolute. His wife sat beside his bed, gently stroking his chest and smiling toothlessly.

"Doctor Hue said that your father and Uncle Ba Khoẻ will be discharged tomorrow," the nurse said.

Yes, I have to go home, Tet (Vietnamese New Year) is coming soon!

- Yes, Tet (Vietnamese New Year) is coming soon!

- And what's your name? Can you tell me?

.../.

Dang Hoang Thai

Source: https://baolongan.vn/noi-a-a201928.html