For whatever reason, I find myself in the waiting room of the Emergency Room this week. The taxi ride takes me back to my first visits to Hong Kong when it was raining and I couldn’t believe how the motorways were entrenched in jungle. Secret green kingdoms cropped in by concrete. The hospital is high up on the mountain and stands next to a cemetery, which lies in plain view. It feels intentional, but it can’t be. I tell myself this as the taxi approaches the drop off point.
My visit is classed as non-urgent and so I am fated to wait with impatience growing rather than panic. It is raining. I am waiting. I am surrounded by old people who wait without complaint. Do they know about the cemetery? They seem comfortable, serene even, especially the grandmothers who are basically mahogany logs carved to life. They too hold non-urgent triage slips in their wooden hands. I like the sound of the word triage. Just the sound of it though.
I try to remember the names of people called over the loudspeaker. They go and come back. It’s easy enough and not particularly fun. My phone is dead because while I made sure to pack plenty of reading material, I forgot the cable for my portable charger. An ideal situation if I actually did feel like reading right now. This is unlike me, so I make note of this unusual symptom, determine a diagnosis, and promptly forget to prescribe myself something. I look around again. The Olympics are being broadcast on the two flat-screens at the front of the room. I can’t believe that no one hits their head on the diving board. Incredible.
Stuck with not much to do other than what’s in front of me. I am reminded of something. Cramped seating. Waiting without knowing. Submitting to someone else’s control. Loudspeakers. What is it? I think for a moment. Ah, air travel. That old thing. Eventually my name is called.