It was the middle of the night when the calls for help started. Humanity sick and in stupor, gathered in the one place they had been taught would attend to their ills. The emergency waiting room was filled with the disheveled, the down trodden, the soul injured and psychologically broken. They waited their turn and their turn hardly ever came. In the waiting, there was one crying out plaintively, "Nurse, blanket. Nurse, I can't breathe. Someone help me, I'm dying. Help!" These words were shouted followed by bouts of head dropped sleep, as the man sat in a wheelchair he had selected for himself from the vestibule. The double set of sliding doors giving entrance to the waiting room had a mind and will of their own, the inner set going through a ritual of half opened, half closed, three to four times with every sliding open, repeating this rhythm incessantly throughout the night, making ghostly groaning noises that echoed those of a man in agony. The quiet that followed when the doors had shut, was a temporary reprieve to be celebrated, but only for a moment; without fail, something, or someone, would trigger the back and forth action, causing vexation to the soul.
There were regulars in attendance. In a seven hour span, my son and I became acquainted with Eric, Cowboy, and a vulgar mouthed sweet man that periodically picked up his possessions, taking them with him for an outdoor cigarette break, while he waited to be called to the inner sanctum held under guard by the medical professionals and hired security. Upon his return, he muttered curses, about communism, Ford, Harper, and something about taking your "Smoking sensation" and shoving it somewhere. When I changed seats, and left something behind, he came out of his muttering and said "Miss, you left something", pointing to the item. Moments before, a waiting room resident had done the very same thing for him, bringing his glasses that had been left behind where he had previously been perched.
We watched an unconscious man sleeping in the vestibule in a wheelchair, suddenly come alive, making his way from one set of chairs, back to his wheelchair, to another set of chairs, and back again, making good use of the water fountain and the bathroom, and then settling in for more uncomfortable sleep in between. He too managed a smoking break, and when he passed us, I could smell what he had smoked, prior to his waiting room stint.
Interestingly, there was a resident care taker, cloaked in eclectic garb. Holy Diver was familiar to the staff, and acted like a welcoming committee of one. We were greeted by this man with a walking stick when we entered the driveway to emerge. Later he took up residence in the vestibule in a wheelchair he had appropriated. He was kind and helpful, and he too, made good use of the restroom, taking tiny breaks from his self-appointed job of keeper of the gates.
Each man had his own quirky personality traits, and ethical approach to others. Eric had a significant stutter, and approached the hideous glass encased work area, wanting to ask questions of the staff. Every few minutes, he made his rounds, to the bathroom, to a seat, to the glassed in area, then outdoors. He was thirsty, and didn't have any money. He told us he couldn't stand the taste of the water from the fountain, and asked us to buy him water, at the price of $3.00 a bottle from a machine, saying how dehydrated he was. He drank the water in seconds flat, thanking us, but also frequently apologizing, as he did with the staff too, for being what many would perceive as an annoyance, interruption, or waste of time. Eric was a sweet young man, that wanted his blood sugar level tested with reassurance that he wasn't in danger of coma, amputation, or other debilitating effects of diabetes.
Cowboy was given a tuna sandwich by the staff, and all but insisted I take half stating "Oh come on! You have been here for hours. You must be starving." He didn't want to eat in front of me without sharing. In the end, he reached into one of his many pockets, pulling out oversized red socks in a plastic bag. In Cowboy's generosity, he threw them my way, wanting me to have something; wanting me to have a take away token. Cowboy was a bit of an historian too, sharing his knowledge of places that had existed in London, been torn down, and rebuilt into other businesses. He shared a nostalgic feeling, a sense of loss, and wondered out loud "They all closed. I don't understand." He knew all the best places to get cowboy hats, inexpensive or free food, and other necessities. I learned he is sixty-five, his father had been a cruel alcoholic, his mother was sweet but had gotten ill with Alzheimers, one of his bosses had been abusive, and that he had two Tim Hortons sweethearts, I presumed employees he had developed a relationship with. Cowboy was well known by staff and the other ER residents. He was popular, and his kindness made him a likeable fellow. He had a way of chuckling when sharing happy memories, and becoming downcast when relating sad stories. Getting to know these people has left and indelible impression... they are survivors, and they know where to find resources you and I, dear reader, know nothing about. Necessity drives them to do things we might consider deplorable and disgusting: what we the plentiful perceive as beneath us, they see as opportunity.
I witnessed a well dressed adorable looking young woman place a McDonald's bag in the garbage. Not long after someone fished out an empty bottle from the bag, to capture water from the foundation. I watched another man, the one that declared he was dying, retrieve from the very same bag, a used coffee cup; he too, filled it with fountain water to drink from. He had been refused water by the woman behind the glass that admits sick people to be seen: apparently, not seeing his needs, ignoring his cries, was self-preserving. While the sick wanted to get help and live, the professionals were trying desperately to be kind while coping. The staff are relegated to a personal and communal hell, seeing humanity in these dire straights conditions, day in and helpless day out. I can not imagine working in such a hell hole, acclimated to horrible.
I did witness human kindness, in subtle and obvious ways, but dear reader, I am very concerned for these humans, working in this environment, and for those going in for help. It is the sickest place I have ever seen, with no reprieve in sight. It is a heart heavy matter to witness humanity suffer so, and realize that I live in an ivory tower.
After seven patient hours of waiting in emergency, my son had still not been seen, and the wait time posted was 13.5 hours, with no guarantee of examination by a physician (my son is fine, dear reader, thanks for your concern!). We left, and the sleep deprivation, coupled with the tension accumulated in my neck, caused a headache that had me vomiting in the parking lot before my son drove us home. The vomitting continued throughout the day, in my clean, private, en suite bathroom. Between bouts of sickness, I lay in my comfortable bed, holding my head, adjusting to the pain as best I could, with short spans of sleep relief, followed again, by the urge to throw up what wasn't there... only bile, wretched, gut wrenching bile came from somewhere within. Perhaps they too, the ER regulars, have bitter bile to expel.
I picture them there still, waiting in emerge; the desperate, the lonely, the wounded and in need. Those that the staff try to ignore that keep coming back for more; something, anything, to soothe the sickness. They look in the wrong place, to the wrong people, of course. They will never get what they need in the way of healing from the equally sick souls that hold down the fake fort in hospital. The staff are no better off then the ER usuals, the regulars that frequent the joint. There is only a societally perceived difference between staff and those that go for help but really, dear one, you must go and see for yourself, how humanity can be kind and cruel, all in the very same small intimate space.
In one small room, people slept in chairs, wheeled and four legged. They slept on floors, drank from a foundation, used the same bathrooms, and politely, for the most part, waited to be called up to the window of approval, to be let in and looked at, by someone, anyone, that could alleviate their pain. The situation is a conglomeration of co-ordinated mess, that somehow works in its extreme dysfunction. This is not good enough, for anyone, dear reader.
Jesus said this to those that have the desire to be His hands and feet:
And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me (Matthew 25:40)
The Great Physician is on 24 hour call, and His waiting room is empty because He answers all that call on the name of Jesus. Dear reader this is not a simple matter, where God just comes down and gives a man water and a tuna sandwich. He calls on us to play a role. Luke 12:48 states:
But he that knew not, and did commit things worthy of stripes, shall be beaten with few stripes. For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.
In this snippet of powerful scripture, we are warned. Not knowing what is happening all around us, gives us a bit of a pass, and we will not be beaten as severely for our transgressions due to our unawareness. Once we KNOW though dear one, we are accountable and must do something according to the power and will of God the Father. We are to be the hands and feet of Jesus on earth, feeding the hungry, tending to His sheep, the lost and the found alike.
"Help me, I have fallen, and I can get up. Will you give me your hand?" This is what we must do, when we see a need we can do something about. I have a plan formulating, with prayer that I do what God calls me to do, without hesitation or procrastination. Love is the greatest medicine in the world, and we are to love others to the feet of Christ.
Dedication: This is dedicated to the regulars that frequent emergency waiting rooms, hoping for the help they need so desperately. Jesus loves you, and my desire is that you will feel His love from those who are called to be His serving hands and feet: Love in action is spectacular to witness.
