It has been quiet on the blog for a bit. Apologies.

Last night, we encouraged a colleague to agree to be driven to the hospital for chest pains. This morning he called from SLU Hospital (where he had been transferred) with two new stents and a cheery, relieved, and thankful demeanor. It reminded me of this miniessay, which also appears in this collection. I should note that since the writing of this piece SLU has erected some brand new buildings, which I trust have taken care of some of the ER overcrowding issues.

2018.02.05

In the crowded ER, triaged, some patients wait in the hallway, one with an IV port stuck in his tattooed arm, another with a blood pressure cuff and monitor beside her chair as she moans in pain, begging for relief. Some moments later, her husband returns and tries to soothe her, to little avail. I sit for a while and talk with my friend who seems a bit out of place as she is nicely dressed, having just been to the symphony the morning before. She sits clutching her P. D. James novel, on which she is making no headway at all. We talk for a bit about how all of James’ novel plots seem to blend into one another, though the writing is good. She has, however, made friends with David, the young, tattooed man from Texas, who is in for pain in his stomach, and to whom she introduces me. Later, a pregnant woman in distress sits down uncomfortably, her partner tending attentively to her needs. More moments pass and two law enforcement officers, a man and a woman, come through the door, which must be unlocked with a card for anyone to enter or leave. They have with them a woman with an orange garment draped over her front, but her manacled ankles make it clear that her wrists, too, are cuffed. They sit her down and then the man goes and returns, bringing for himself and his partner a packet of chips and a Gatorade each. It is a break of sorts in what to them must be a pretty normal day and they affably talk with the staff, while the inmate quietly waits.

The last time I was in this ER it was when an ambulance had brought my father here, and our visit was punctuated near its end with the gentle words of a doctor, “And then he did die.” I am not distressed by that just now, at least not in ways that I can tell. And, yet, something does quicken in me in response to this diorama of disquiet, through which the nurses and techs walk with caring detachment, knowing themselves, I am sure, how to triage their emotions, measuring right responses to so many stimuli and supplications. It is not so hard to nor too sentimental, I think, to view them as somewhat angelic—not in any sappy cherubic or New Agey sense, but as ministering spirits, clear-eyed, kindly-severe, set with a purpose. Something quickens. Should not such suffering call out some response from me? In the moment, I do not know what it should be, except to sit and talk and wait, to not hide away my eyes from the eyes of others. I sit for three quarters of an hour until my friend insists that I go home. I hug her, say my goodbyes to David, and slip through the door opened for another patient.