Advice from a tree

*This post is unedited and akin to a stream of consciousness. I apologise about this.

I had unexpected inspiration for my writing today. Ginormous story short, I am in the nearly-empty triage room of a paediatric emergency ward, waiting for my name to be called. I’m okay. Everything’s intact. It could be worse, at least I have something to post about.

On my left are two young people who look like they’re in secondary school.
The teenage guy has just come back from a blood and vitals test, moaning about his painful arm but looking spirited otherwise. He is dressed in Lakers merch and sporting a wavy short haircut. His trainers are greyed and worn from use.
The girl on the left, who I can only assume is his one and only, has a buzz cut that is growing out. Her eyeliner is thick and draws my attention immediately. Her jacket, the same colours as his, reaches to her knees and is made of a loose fabric.
I try not to eavesdrop, but their conversation is loud and lively. The boy was attending a protest while on a hunger strike and fainted. They are both in their early teens, full of idealism and a desire for Parliament to listen to their demands. The girl pledges to stay by the guy’s side, but he insists that she go home soon. Her sister won’t be happy picking her up from the hospital so late, he argues. In the end, they go home together, test results clear. I wish them, and their activism, the best.

This waiting room only has nine seats. The walls are adorned with poppies, simple but elegant on a white background. A TV is mounted above the chairs, looking barely used. There are posters all over; one says that being different isn’t a bad thing and that it means you are brave enough to be yourself. Another, perhaps posted in December and forgotten about, gives options for mental health support during Christmas. My favourite decoration is a crude cardboard tree with tissue paper leaves and a hastily glued black-and-white wren. The Arial font indicates the tree’s life advice: stand tall, remember your roots, be content with your natural beauty, and enjoy the view.

Wouldn’t we all be happier as trees?

A mother and her daughter, the latter still in her school uniform, are sitting in front of me. They speak a language I can’t identify: possibly a Slavic tongue? The mother takes a colouring page and works at it with a pink pen. She doesn’t seem concerned at first glance, but her hair is frazzled and she watches the doctors’ every move. Her daughter is only able to speak softly and clutches her hip every time she stands.

Another school-aged girl is here too, accompanied by an older boy: her friend or her brother? They are exuberant, though clearly exasperated at the waiting time. Her outfit looks like she could go to the gym at any moment if it weren’t for the A&E. When her companion leaves, she is at first talkative, calling a school friend to complain about the urine samples she had to provide for pregnancy testing (“I’m like the Virgin Mary, what the ****!?”) and mourning peers who were soon to graduate. Then, she asks for a prayer for her health and says goodbye. But now, she is sitting quietly, occasionally letting out a deep breath.

As I grow restless, unable to find a comfortable position for all my limbs, a nurse shouts, “How you feeling, Elijah? Have the minions helped?”

I hear sobbing moments later.

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I’ve been seen now. I should go home soon. What a long wait for such a minor problem! But I’m glad I could experience the bowels of this hospital and the heroes that run it.

A Chinese family sat down while I was being examined. They brought two howling children in a stroller, one complaining of a fever and a sore throat. The family is bilingual; their Mandarin is spoken with an accent I don’t recognise and their English is almost completely British. An old man, his English heavily accented, is also sitting here with his adult daughters. He teases the children gently, asks the parents whether they have seen a doctor, and gives up his seat for another patient. People like him are more common than we realise in the emergency department.

I am still here, waiting for the painkillers to set in. I have a friend with me. She has several deadlines and still volunteered to give me company. Another dear friend texted me the whole way, asking about my state at every turn. Others have shown through numerous means that I am cared for. I hope you get the same treatment when something, however minor, happens to you.

I want to thank you all for your well-wishes. What a gift you are.