A homeless woman is passed out and snoring in the lobby. She lays crumpled on top of a bench, a bag overstuffed with her life’s belongings on the floor next to her. It’s impossible to tell if she’s 30 or 60 given her sun-worn skin. This might be the most comfortable place she’s slept in a while. Some people in the lobby throw her disdainful looks, pretending they could never end up in her situation. A silly delusion to distract them from the harsh reality that we only have so much control in this world. It feels extra ironic given we’re all in the ER waiting room.
A little baby is screaming and crying in his father’s arms. The dad is frantically trying to comfort his child while judgement surrounds him. He gives onlookers apologetic looks. Sure, it’s loud, but it isn’t a bother. Your child is so sick you brought him to the ER in the middle of the night. I don’t care how much he cries, I just want him to feel better. Ignore anyone’s glances, ignore our feelings entirely. Especially when half of them are playing AI slop videos on full blast without headphones.
A couple is in the consultation cubicle next to me. I hear everything the nurse says to her, which feels like a HIPPA violation. We’re the same age and have the same job.Full of warmth, she talks about her pregnancy and her husband. Full of tension, she talks about certain complications, reassuring herself that it’s probably fine. The nurse brings a doctor, who tells her they’re going to admit her immediately. She’s fully in denial and doesn’t understand what’s happening. She only came to the ER because she was advised to get tests and her clinic was closed. The doctor in an even but very grave tone tells her they might do emergency surgery as they think it’s [redacted]. I look the condition up on my phone as they wheel her away, her husband following close behind. As I learn what that condition is, I burst into tears and pray to anything, everything, that she’ll be okay in the end.
A mother and daughter enter the waiting room and suck the air out of the space. The teenage girl has large bloodstains all over her pants. Blood that is obviously, painfully not her own. She has a cute bow in her slightly disheveled hair. She’s doing everything she can not to cry. The mother’s eyes are far away and flat, her movements extremely stiff like her muscles are frozen. They’re both breathing sharp and shallow, trauma squeezing at the lungs.
I have a strong urge to help them. I have an even stronger urge to leave them the hell alone. If I was in that state, having a stranger approach me would make everything so much worse. They get taken into a side area, then later leave in a full blown panic attack. The mother runs out of the building, her screams echoing into the night. Her daughter follows her, hyperventilating. Through the frosted windows, I see their shadowy forms bent over as they cry and gasp for breath. I hate how public this visceral moment is for them. I wish I could cloak them away in darkness, away from the crowded lobby, away from whatever pain, whatever their lives would look like in the next weeks. A nurse later comes to retrieve them and I never see them again. When I’m finally back home, I lay in bed and think about them. Even now, I still do.
What I wore to the ER lol Thought if I was dying might as well go out in style 🌟
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