I spent two days in the hospital last week, and I had a roommate.

He was divided from me by a sliding curtain. I understood from the conversations with a nurse and his family that he had a broken leg that had become infected more than a year ago.

There was a lot of medical activity around his bed, so I didn’t try to speak. And truth be told, I didn’t want to speak. Conversations like that are usually forced, and I had a great new Emma Donahue novel to read.

He was in the hospital for a sixth or seventh surgery, I gathered; the doctors could not stop the infection or kill it off.

He was scheduled for more surgery on his open and festering wound, but it has been postponed because it was a Friday, and nobody would be there to do it.

When his family and his doctors left, and we were both alone in the dark, he said hello, and I said hello back.

We spoke quietly so as not to awaken anyone on the now quiet ward.

We were only inches apart, separated by the curtain, but neither of us invited the other into our room. It seemed that this was as close as either of us wanted to get.

I got a passing glimpse of my roommate as I was wheeled into my room after surgery. I guessed him to be in his late 50’s or early 60’s; he was a good looking man with a kind and weathered face, and a shock of white hair. From what I could see, he had aged well.

Our conversation went on and off into the night, and then again in earnest in the morning, as each of us waited for our doctors to appear. Mine was to clear me for going home.

He could no longer walk on his own, he had to use a wheelchair or crutches, and walking was painful and difficult. He was courteous and patient. His IV kept beeping, and he kept politely asking for the nurses to come and fix in it.

His doctor was to explain to him – yes, I could hear some of it, and he told me the rest  –  why they were not able to stem his infection, which was eating up the fone and tendon in the leg.

I never asked his name, and he never asked mine. A year ago, he said he stepped out the back door of his remote country home and slipped on some ice on the top step. He fell sideways and broke his leg below the knee.

He was taken to the hospital, and the doctors operated on his leg, putting in a rod and making a cast for him. In a matter of weeks, the leg was in excruciating pain, and there was a pus-like discharge around the cast.

He went back to the hospital for another operation; they opened up his leg and saw the infection.

A year and any number of anti-biotics later and surgeries later, he was back in the hospital again. His life had been upended, he spent more time in the hospital that year than at home, and he is no longer able to do any of the things that gave him pleasure- hiking, skiing, hunting, boating in a nearby lake.

With every surgery, his leg was shrinking as the doctors kept removing infected bone and tissue. To date, he said there was really no solution in sight. None of the antibiotics were working. He was afraid to ask, but he wondered if they wouldn’t have to amputate his leg at some point. No one had mentioned it yet.

He said he was always in some pain every minute of every day.

He never complained and showed no anger or grievance, but the details he gave me were chilling in the pain and disruption to his life. All I did was step out on my back step, he said, and my life as I knew it ended. I don’t know if it will ever be normal.

He was disappointed to learn that he couldn’t go home to his wife and friends for the weekend, he would have to stay in the hospital all weekend, and the wards were already emptying.

I told him about my heart procedure; he listened graciously and said he was happy it had turned out so well. I was silent, I didn’t want to gloat, and I couldn’t say the same for him.

The nurses came into clean him and check on his wounds and help him stand a bit on his walker. We broke off our conversation.

My doctor didn’t show up at 9, as he was supposed to.  I was fine, and all I needed to go home was for a doctor to look at my incision point and say it was fine.

Another doctor, a woman from her voice, told my roommate about the tendons she had taken out and how that would make standing and walking more difficult for him.

I was sorry to hear that. Small dramas, I thought, big consequences.

I was getting annoyed.

I had finished my novel and had listened to hours of music on my iPhone. Maria was waiting to come and pick me up once I was cleared to go. It would take her a while to get into Albany from the farm.

I got caught in on those bureaucratic clusterfucks and bored senseless. I am not a patient man.

I waited several hours before asking the nurse to check on the doctor.

Oh, she said, they are on the floor, they’ll be there shortly. Two hours later, I asked another aide of the doctors were on the floor. Oh yes, she said, they are just a few rooms down.

They come every more; they are just late this morning.

Another 90 minutes, and I rang the chief nurse again.

Oh, she said, I don’t know what to tell you, they will come eventually. I can’t imagine where they are. I began to picture myself spending another night in the hospital; something was wrong.

I offered to call the cardiology department myself; I had the number on a piece of paper. The nurse saw this and clearly didn’t want me to call. She said she would call down there herself.

A few minutes later, a young doctor appeared, said there was a paperwork snafu, apologized sort of, looked at my wound, and said I could leave. I called Maria, packed up my things, and got dressed.

My roommate must have heard all of this but said nothing. I had the feeling he was talked out and didn’t want any more conversation. Or maybe, he didn’t want to trouble me, that was likely.

It was a funny thing about hospitals. They constantly talked about HIPPA regulations, but every patient in the hospital could hear every single thing their roommates said could be easily overheard.

I was angry at these delays; the nurses should have checked the whereabouts of the doctor’s hours early, I’d been staring at the walls for half the day.

The first nurse came in with my discharge papers and a list of medications and instructions for healing.

I was still steaming about those lost hours, and then I heard my roommate on the phone telling his wife he wouldn’t be coming home until Monday, if then.

He was trying to hide the sadness and resignation in his voice. I know how much he wanted to get home and not spend the weekend alone in the hospital.

The night before, he said he was getting hopeless about the leg healing. I heard the doctors telling him they hadn’t given up, but we’re running out of options. They would keep trying.

I wondered how long he would keep trying. He was a nice, gracious man. I’m sure we are very different people, but sitting in our room, talking on and off for hours, we had connected, one human to another.

My procedure was a success, and he must have heard me crowing about it on my phone calls to my friends. He said two or three times he didn’t want to be a downer when I had had such good luck.

The nurse kept apologizing about my delays and asked if I was okay with it. I said I was fine; mistakes happen, hospitals are busy and active places. I heard my new friend sigh in bed as I started to leave.

You know, I told her, it’s fine.  I have nothing to complain about. Some so many people have it much worse than me.

I gave her the novel I had finished to the nurse and asked her to give it to my roommate, whose name I still didn’t know.

I picked up my things and walked out of the room and past the open curtain around my roommate’s bed.

We looked at each other for a while – it was probably only four or five seconds, but it seemed much longer. I felt guilty about leaving him there, and I also knew I would never see him or speak to him again.

Our lives had come together in this small and intimate way, but they were parting again.

“Good luck,” I said to him, waving. He looked wistful but was smiling.

“Good luck to you,” he replied, giving me thumbs up.