I tried to write to you yesterday, but it turned out bleak and could only send it to a few. My spirits were down due to the the condition of my confinement and the persistent low mutterings of “Hello!” and “Nurse!” that emanated through the afternoon and deep into the night from the occupant of Bed 138 B, the one whose head is about ten feet from mine, Bed 138 C.

I am glad I did not trouble you, though the feeling of despair and frustration at this 86th day confined without respite to hospital beds. There was a whisper of hope that other lodgings might be arranged as soon as Easter. Ones in which the baggage and walkers and wheelchairs for Beds A-C are not jammed and which there could be an area in which desperate men might pace to release the stress of confinement.

My spirits had urned at the mention of the holiday and looked at the calendar to see how many weeks or days might remain until some form of liberation might arrive. What startled me was the notation about today. It is Passover, one of the holy days of the three related faiths. In more venerated reference, it is known as Pesach, or one of the three Pilgrimage Festivals. This one celebrates the Exodus of the Israelites from Slavery in Egypt. I mark their holidays with respect if not veneration. More as a simple means of understanding. I only missed the end of Ramadan by a day, and am sure about the arrival of my own on Easter.

Passover, in my limited understanding, is described in the Book of Exodus as the day Almighty God commanded Moses to direct the Israelites to slaughter a lamb and mark their doorframes with its blood. There were also dietary instructions for consuming the lamb that night, since God would send the Angel of Death to distribute the Tenth Plague which would smite the firstborn of Egypt in retribution for the slavery imposed on the Jews.

I observe the tenets of my faith to the degree convenient, and those of the related faiths to avoid inadvertent offense, but the passions of old times seem to be strong today. The Israelis have suffered a series of offenses to which they have responded in some anger not recognized by students here at Columbia where jewish students have been abused in the simple exercise of attending class.

I do not claim to understand it all, and the Egyptians of Passover times followed some faiths that d not exist today. But the imagery resonates on my feelings of secular confinement, and hope this time of conflict will permit the Iranians I have opposed since our embassy was taken in 1979 to sit down at the same table as our representatives and help give the ancient lands a taste of Peace.

You will understand my reluctance to believe it and the dim but steady beam of hope in that.

My other hope? To walk again, and to walk alone and free from the confines of the Beds of Room 138. Free of the nurses and their assistants. Free of the medication staff’s eight hour rhythms or the the cleaning crew that works with eyes averted. Or the Doctor who came through the just moments ago. It is not a work day. He was not attired in official scrubs, just a sturdy stethoscope slung around his neck and surgical gloves as his only marks of distinction. He was slight and dark and appeared to be catching up on something that crossed the various maladies along our corridor from room 130 to 138.

He asked if I recalled him in the medical host of months, and I did, though vaguely. He gve me a cursory look and would have passed me over in the interest of his inner quest. But I asked him if he knew some of the troubles of the covid plague. My interest was limited to whether the mRna component of the vaccine I took was a persistent or passing thing, just associated in time to when the vaccine was administered. In other words, “Am I going to die?”

My problem seemed to have a relation to his, though not in the matter of persistence of the blood clotting phenomenon. Some of his concern seemed to be about his profession, and his willingness to talk was based only on a tangential sense of shared injury. He said when covid began to spread there appeared to be other remedies- I think I heard ‘ivermectin’ only in the blur of words- and he said his credentials were threatened with revocation unless he kept his mouth shut in a practice devoted to the search for truth.

He acknowledged my problem with a brief nod and a knowing slim frown. Then he moved along the side of my Bed 138 C and onward to seek solutions to whatever was riding his attention. i slumped back on the powered bed where my weight had pressed unique receiving hollows. I picked up the glowing tablet device to see if there was something about lambs or whether the application of their blood to the door jams of room 138 might help in liberation.

There was no comfort to be found in the mantras of another faith. There was a note I needed to complete to Bronco, a fighter pilot buddy from a unique shared moment in the torrent of life far away but whose passions had flashed regularly through the years. His note was about a pending river journey in a remarkable vessel, angular and lean. He and Lynn will flow from Amsterdam down to Budapest on the Rhine, and told me to hang tough until he returned.

Bronco has a truck. And he will help get me moved and squared away. Away from here. And on the notes about the Rhine and Budapest there was mention of another river junction, the one where the Danube spears the Rhine.

And you know, if I get through this, I think there is a nice seat on a proud ship on a lovely river I am going to enjoy. And it is not going to be a metaphor!

V/R
JR