The Emergency Room in this hospital reminds me of a refugee camp dumped in the middle of a TV news control center. Prostrate patients grimace and moan amid a million screens broadcasting their latest blood pressure updates like the NASDAQ stock ticker. "We're still waiting to go over to Dr Unction reporting live from Cardiology. Meanwhile here's Nurse Clog with today's vital signs."
And me? Well, fortunately I'm just a minor human interest story about a spell of dizziness; the sort of low key snippet the anchor man might deliver with a wry smile and raised eyebrow. Frankly, they may not even have time for me if the ambulance stringers rush in with more urgent dispatches. I guess that's a good thing for me. But it also means I don't know when I'll be able to change the channel and go home. The downside of not being a critical case is being wheeled off to one side and told to wait.
And that's why, despite all the pulsing technology, the ER feels like a refugee camp. I'm waiting and waiting and waiting for the doctor to arrive and stamp my exit visa. Someone in scrubs on a previous shift said he'd see me hours ago, so long ago that I've lost track of whether it's day or night, whether it's still today and not tomorrow already. It's easy to fall into a sense of creeping despair when staring interminably at the hospital ceiling. I must keep thinking of my saline drip bag as half full and not half empty otherwise I'll never get out of here.
And eventually the doctor does appear, bathed in a shaft of light at the end of the corridor like a great prophet whose second coming was always promised to the faithful but always somehow delayed until now. And like all great prophets, he is the bearer of Good News: my blood work is deemed satisfactory and I am finally handed discharge papers allowing me passage into the land of the healthy where I can make a new start.
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