Rx: Disaster

After four days of care-taking a half blind friend with the temperament of a two year old having a tantrum, I'm exhausted and drained. I've seen nothing but doctors and hospitals for the past week and it makes me wonder if I might not soon need one or both myself.

The ER of the former charity hospital is only mildly crowded at eleven in the morning and I'm optimistic that it may not be one of those all day visits that they are so notorious for. I soon realize my mistake - though he's triaged and given a place in line quickly enough, the waiting has just begun - patients are seen according to the seriousness of their condition and this is not a practice that endears the staff to everyone. Severely elevated blood sugar trumps the toothache, the sniffles, the congested babies and the amputees but not the cardiac cases or the gunshot wounds. The police are in and out, escorting prisoners in handcuffs and orange jumpsuits. The drug seekers curl up awkwardly in the waiting room chairs, restless and strung out and a little scary. In one corner, a wheelchair bound patient - gender unknown since he or she is covered by a white sheet and is more or less motionless - sits hunched over and invisible. There's considerable curiosity as to whether he or she is alive or dead and no small amount of speculation that, either way, he or she has been forgotten. It occurs to me that if members of congress or their families were routinely limited to this kind of treatment, we'd have healthcare reform in a heartbeat. These are people with no insurance other than Medicaid, no access to primary care physicians, no other place to turn. Despite the murals and artwork, the wall mounted televisions, the new paint and the constant parade of smiling young faces in their pastel scrubs, this is still an unhappy place.

Hour after hour goes by. I can practically hear them dragging past me - in my imagination they're clubfooted and clumsy - I go outside to blatantly violate the rules and smoke then come back and sit down, close my eyes and try to catnap. Most of the faces that were waiting when we arrived are still waiting. The sheet draped patient in the wheelchair hasn't been moved so much as an inch.

It's just past four when we get to leave and the weather has taken a drastic turn for the unpleasant. It's rainy and noticeably colder, a bad end to a long day. We stop at the grocery store, the deli, and the drugstore and are finally done. I turn the key in the front door and an avalanche of dogs comes tumbling down the stairs to greet us. It's instant chaos, rowdy and loud, and very welcome. Thanks to the efforts of another friend, the house is spit and polish cleaned with fresh sheets on the bed, dishes washed and put away, vaccumed within an inch of its life and warm. It's enough to put the ER visit out of my mind and I finally get to head home.