Capturing a Day’s Quiet Passing

November 28, 2024. 4:28 pm. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

Since last week, I’ve been photographing the chair by the corner window in my older sister’s hospital room. The shades are drawn halfway, with two metal pulleys hanging above—simple, graphic, and powerful. While waiting for her surgery to finish, I realized I could document the same scene every hour, quietly observing the subtle shifts in light and shadow as a way to mark the passage of time. It gave me something to focus on during what I anticipated would be a very long day. I reached for my iPhone and set an alarm as a reminder to take a photo each hour. Admittedly, I messed up twice: once when I forgot to change the time from PM to AM, and another when I was on the phone with my aunt and missed the moment.

My rosary unraveled soon after I began to pray. I must have been clutching the beads too tightly. Spotting a roll of medical tape near the phone, I used it to reinforce the string and hold them together.

At lunchtime, I walked to the small break room a few doors down to microwave the meal I’d prepared: red rice, taco-seasoned black beans , red bell peppers, and kale, topped with a homemade plant-based cheese sauce made from pumpkin seeds. I returned to the sleeper bench pressed against the wall opposite the front door and sat down. The soft tink of my spoon against the glass container broke the heavy silence in the empty room.

Afterward, I visited the nurse station to check the status of the surgery. Still ongoing, they said. Rest assured, they would update me once word came back from the OR.

At around 1:30 p.m., Dr. Jay knocked on the door and walked in to give me an update. The surgery had been successful, though not without some difficulty. He explained that he had taken extra care to minimize bleeding. He provided the following instructions: my sister could begin eating anything, but in small quantities. She could also start moving—ideally walking, or at least dangling her legs over the side of the bed. Right now, she was in the recovery room, where she would stay for three hours to monitor her vital signs, receive doctors' clearance, and complete the necessary paperwork. I pressed my hands together and thanked him. He returned the gesture with a reassuring smile before leaving.

The final stretch of the day was the most excruciating. I tried pacing the circular hallway, but the sound of several patients coughing nearby reminded me we were on the same floor as the COVID-19 ward. Retreating to the room, I walked in slow circles, meditating like a monk—feeling the floorboards beneath each step and my breath under my mask. As the sun went down, so did the temperature in the room. Walking seemed to generate a little warmth. The ticking of the clock’s second hand echoed louder than ever.

Just after 7:00 p.m., the OR staff finally wheeled my sister in. She looked exhausted but relieved to be back. Hungry, she asked caregiver Jellen to heat up the leftover turkey meal that our cousin Katrina had sent over for Thanksgiving. She had smiled when I brought it to her last Friday, after nearly a week on a low-fat, low-salt diet prescribed by her doctors. Her eyes rolled with pleasure as she took a spoonful of the pecan pie. “So good,” she said.

This time, she only took a few bites but soon realized she wasn’t hungry anymore. “Nalipasan na ako ng gutom,” she said (Hunger has passed already).

She asked about the surgery so I conveyed my conversation with Dr. Jay. I informed her that everyone she requested was updated: Mom, my siblings, niece, and her friends.

We held each other’s hand and gave it a gentle shake.

“Thanks, Stells,” she said softly, then closed her eyes.

“The surgery is done,” I said.

She nodded.

“One step at a time,” she replied.

The lens can function as a shield between you and the world, when the world’s just a little too much to bear. If you can’t stand to look at the world directly, maybe it’s possible to look at it through the viewfinder.

—Emily, St John Mandel, The Glass Hotel.

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