Sitting in an ER waiting lounge is like sitting not far from a war zone I guess.
Broken people, many old some very young walk, are rolled or carried into the room. Sometimes they look a little scared, others a little lost but all of them seem to look around wondering how their lives seem to have entered a parenthesis, they don’t understand how the hospital system works and what’s expected of them.
The first doctor to look at my husband’s hand has a computer with his desktop divided between two monitors … the desktop on both screens display a large beige photo of Che Guevara. In his ER greens he’s the farthest thing from a South American revolutionary hero that I can think of but I suppose it’s a statement of sorts, a declaration of some intimate ideal. Finishing the paperwork, he glances at the hand.
“Yes, it looks broken.” he says and then orders some x-rays and that’s the last time we see him.
We went from ward to ward and even changed hospital at one point. The people changed and yet somehow they didn’t. Finally the hand’s bandaged but the odyssey wasn’t over. For the final decision of what his therapy would be, he had a CAT scan. The reception nurse informs us: “Your appointment will be on Monday morning to see the results.”
faces come and go
dancing on linoleum
under neon lights
© G.s.k. ‘15
(This is a short follow up of yesterday’s Just a Note Haiku.