Paying it forward

The amber glow washed across everything. The white snow turned amber, the concrete building turned amber and even the snow flurries joined in this transformation.

Our destination, built for function, not aesthetic, sat perched on a rise. Utilitarian, 1970s era, standing 3 or 4 stories high.

We pull up outside a large windowed lobby, empty and devoid of life.

A slip, a backwards tumble, a crash 30 minutes early worried us. Clearly this wasn’t the right place, this is no ER and our anxiety ratchets further up

A woman is making her way up the sidewalk. It’s a slow and deliberate walk, maybe age driven or caution for the slippery surface. Despite the possibility of alarming her, urgency dictated stopping and asking. Window down, pointing at our charge, I say one word, “Emergency”. She gets it, directing and describing in English that we really need to be elsewhere — fortunately close by.

I enter the building. Not a soul to greet nor interrogate me. I venture down corridors so typical of hospitals. Closed doors left and right, lights turned down to remind it’s night time. I pass an old human uncomfortably reposed in a chair staring vacantly at the ceiling. I realize this is a geriatric ward and think “Oh God no, not me one day”, the self centered thought adding more to my guilt as a trespasser.

The nurses station is dark, two nurses maybe more are locked in conversation. I deploy the best smile and wave. A nurse speaks English, gets the urgency and walks me back to the car and then into the emergency room. Somewhat like my geriatric ward this place is dark and devoid of the pandemonium of a typical ER.

Another couple has disappeared into some inner sanctum.

Eventually, a blood pressure device arrives attached to an orderly. Young, bearded and also fluent, he asks the story and preps his device. Layers of clothing come off and eventually the machine is strapped to our charge, followed by a discussion of normalcy and medication.

It’s late, we’re tired, our orderly is long gone and we reflect that this is an unspoken observation period.

The uniform was distinctive, almost a firefighter’s but in shades of green. The clinician beckoned us into a large windowless room. The story is told again. As the “first responder” I describe what unfolded.

She listens, types and collects details, from the mundane through to the medically essential. She confirms that our charge’s bump in the night should be taken seriously, having inspected its almost fist sized discoloration, heard about unconsciousness and temporary amnesia.

She calls and no reply, explaining that the staff are probably busy with other patients.

Waiting is filled with idle chit chat.

She asks how long we’ve known each other.

“Days”, we say and she’s quite touched by our diligence to an almost stranger.

I share our schoolboy medical perspective that a possible concussion and flying are not good bed fellows. She concurs and we feel vindicated. I add that we are “paying it forward” — because one day the calamity might be ours.

I ask what “lege” means and all falls into place.

She’s the ER doctor dressed for field work.

Back in a big city she’d done three years of ER work, but the next step — the specialist bridge she needs — comes with too few openings and too much waiting. Up here, on the frontier, she trades comfort for velocity: harder nights, broader duty, and a quicker passage through the gate.

We find ourselves in an elevator, but apparently the wrong elevator, and ride its near identical neighbor. At this hour even the machinery feels half-asleep — buttons, doors, corridors that all look the same.

It’s not entirely clear what plague is abroad but everyone has masks on. Instructed to don masks, bad memories are dragged out from Covid.

The unknown contagion, serious to someone, has us shepherded into a large room and told we’re going nowhere. I protest, sharing my desire to visit the boys room. Silence. They disappear, leaving me wondering “how long?”.

A masked nurse is back, presents a plastic container and declares “you boys need to share this!”. Seeing our faces and not wishing to prolong the agony, she states “just joking, the pair of you can wait in the lobby” and we decamp, leaving our charge with the masked heroines.

I’m staring back at myself through glass that I had peered into a few hours earlier. It’s the same windowed lobby but now converted into a makeshift and possibly unsanctioned dormitory.

Sleep is disjointed, begged for and often ends prematurely.

Harsh lights, a public and unfamiliar space and a real concern for the health of our charge all conspire.

Somewhere in the half world of sleep and consciousness, she hands us both blankets. We thank an unregistered face.

The work of scanners, stethoscopes and doctors unknown is done and our charge is declared a lucky man and returned to us.

Our cold beds await and we remind ourselves “breakfast is at 8:30 and not 8:00 tomorrow”.