Green Tea Walls

It would seem that a hospital and an ultimatum are synonymous with one another
Going to a hospital seems to always result in the presentation of binary suggestions
In fact, before you even walk into the facility, you are given two options.

Enter or Exit.

I enter and upon entering I observe the convalescent walls
Painted in a color reminiscent of green tea
I guess to promote a feeling of healing
This holistic Feng Sui suggests the cleansing of energy.

I find your room.
I find the doctor suggesting what you need to do to get better
Implicating what would happen if you don't.

He said if you don't control your diet or take a couple of baby aspirin
Every now and then to keep your blood thin
Then your blood would turn thicker than the soil we'd have to bury you in
Said at that point your blood would stagger up to your brain
And choke it out until everything was black, blacker, and blacker still.

When he said the word stroke.
You looked at your hands the way
a man does when he knows he is not finished yet.

Your left hand was clinically unaffected.
Your right hand was puffy like the way eyes get
In the skull of someone who just went through a bad breakup.
When the right side of your body lost connection with
your central nervous system due to an interference in transmission
Did it feel like your body was breaking up?

He asked you where you worked and for long.
You said you'd been at the same company for 43 years.
And then it came.
The question that you, me, and these fucking green tea walls knew was coming came:
Do you plan on retiring soon?

You look at your hands again.
You only have two options.
Right. Left.
Yes. No. 
Finished. Not.
And through tears and a broken voice you say in a hushed tone.
I think I'm ready to now.
Work. Don't.
Die. Live.
Heal. Decay.

I walk out of the room.
Make my way to the hospital doors.
The sign hangs sullenly there as if trying to communicate with the shame in me.
Enter/Exit.

I exit the hospital.
I exit the ultimatum.