The nurses sound like startled chickens. Someone has moved patients and bed numbers on the board. The emergency waiting room is over flowing and beds beyond the veil (Ha. I wish.) are at max capacity. I must have stopped by out of peak hours.
A nurse from the ward came down
to tell me that they hoped there would be a bed for me today. Me too. Unfortunately, his name, which he was at pains to repeat so I could take it in, was the same as my Daughter’s murderer. Trigger. Grief and loss – Trigger. Powerlessness – Trigger. Trigger, trigger, trigger, trigger and neither a shotgun nor Roy Rogers in sight. Hardly seems fair really. But life isn’t, is it? It is just degrees of unfair.
I spoke to Son Number One this morning and he was genuinely sorry for me when I told him what has happened. This young man who is meant to lack in empathy. I expect if Baby Daddy ever gets around to letting Son Number One see Daughter Number Two again Son Number One will tell Baby Daddy about my change of circumstances. The pleasure he will get from the news will be equal to my despair and the gloating and crowing that will ensue really does not bear thinking about. So much to look forward to.
I am mostly left to my own devices. They have real sick people here. At night, when it’s quiet, I’ve taken to having a quick stroll around the bowels of the hospital. No one challenges me, lending weight to my theory that I am but a phantom. Hospitals, schools, they have a whole other vibe at night. You can still feel the echoes of the daytime bustle, a certain electricity remains despite the stillness.
The day is broken up with meals and medications. Breakfast around 7am, lunch between 1.30pm – 2pm, dinner by 7pm. The gorgeous male doctor who checked me in told me to focus on little things, to eat the meals and I do, because there is little else to pass the time.
This time last week I had a home. Now, I could not be more alone.