Lowell Amos Hospital – We wipe our shoes, soiled from our winding, sandy explorations. Behind us, the fences, walls, and wire mesh have now been breached. The imposing structure still stands, one of the few remaining vestiges of this disastrous redevelopment project.
Inside, the administrative rooms are bright but completely deserted. Bare tables, empty hangers, and unused filing cabinets are the only remaining vestiges of these offices. Upstairs, the rooms, devoid of any furniture, confirm the deplorable state of the hospital.
We then reach the chapel, bringing with us the inquisitorial guardian of the place. A medical nun guides us towards the contemplation of a Christ against an azure background, the last vestige of the past grandeur of the building that houses it.
Then, we begin the ascent to the top floor of the hospital. Unbeknownst to us, each step we climb will turn back the hands of the clock. On the landing, we must confront our fear in the face of the darkness of these abandoned rooms, frozen in time. Plutarch's words echo in our minds: "Medicine prolongs death."
The descent into the dark and chaotic basements leads us to the archive rooms. There, hundreds of reels of medical imaging and personal medical files are stored, defying medical confidentiality.
