Part Two – Waiting Rooms
My mind tells me that the room is a pure, featureless white. Practically, I know this can’t really be true. Maybe it’s because nothing this side of the double-doors matters; what’s important is what’s going on behind those doors.
I’m in the waiting room.
What are you supposed to wait for in a waiting room anyway?
We’re still at the first hospital, it seems like we’ve only been here a few minutes, but in reality we’ve been here almost 2 hours.I’m frustrated because I don’t know what’s happening, and that scares me.
What happened there was explained to me later:
I do know that Gemma regained consciousness, but that she wasn’t really ‘all there’. She was vomiting and very restless – trying to roll onto her stomach, but the doctor needed her to be flat on her back. The doctor struggled to keep Gemma flat and prepare an injection of an anti-emetic at the same time, so mum jumped onto the geurney and, straddling her body, pinned Gemma flat with her hands and knees.
Surprised, the doctor turned to her, and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were a nurse,”
“I’m not a nurse,” she said, “I’m just a mother.”
* * *
We reached the hospital ahead of the ambulance, and were told to wait in a consultation room in Accident & Emergency. The doctors were there as much as not, and my parents – though they never left the room – were no different. There is very little that I remember of this period, except that Gemma was brought in by the paramedics and was taken away immediately.
I do remember a doctor telling me there was a good chance I would be an only child.
I also remember hearing someone say something about bringing in a priest.
Something about Last Rights; I don’t think I was supposed to hear this.
Something also about my sister being brain dead.
I remember someone explaining to me what meningitis was, and that the bacteria was growing in my sister’s blood, causing it to become toxic. That the fluid and membranes covering her brain and spinal cord were inflamed because of the bacteria. I remember my aunt running in from somewhere beyond the corner of my eye, choking me in a bear-hug. My mother looked to her sister and said, “my daughter…”
We walked through the hospital to the Intensive Care Unit, passing several members of the family. There was another waiting room, but this time, it was to be our home for a week. It was equipped with a toilet and shower. The nurses would bring us sufficient bedding later, and we would sleep there while the families of other critical patients would come and go.
By that afternoon, as the sun slipped lower in the sky, I still hadn’t seen my sister. Her name appeared on the ICU board – she was the only ‘Miss’ in a list of Mr’s and Mrs’. Someone realised we hadn’t eaten. I went down to the hospital cafeteria with my cousin Simone. I tried to eat, and to this day I still can’t eat raisin bread. I was aware that I hadn’t yet cried. When there was a reason to cry, I would.
Finally, I was allowed to see my sister. There was a nurse who dressed me in greens and gloves and a mask. As she dressed me, she tried to prepare me for what I would see. I walked into the glass isolation room and saw my sister lying in the bed. She was intubated, and her breathing was a mechanical event, accompanied by the insistent woosh of air from the ventilator. There was a nasogastric tube, a central line, and an IV line in her hand. Several IV drips slowly provided her with bright red penicillin and clear fluids. She was naked, but covered with a hospital blanket, her feet sticking out the end. Her eyes had been glued shut. When I asked why this was so, I was told that she was in a coma now, and this would prevent her eyes from drying out. The septic rash had intensified.
Only two people were allowed to visit at a time, but I wanted to go in alone. The nurses had to stay in the room the whole time, and I remember one of them singing Mariah Carey songs to Gemma, because they knew somehow that she liked her music. I noticed that there was no window in the glass room, and for a moment I considered that Gemma might like to know what time of day it was, but then I realised that it was pointless, because she might never see outside again. The heart monitor beeped; the ventilator sighed, and the nurse was singing. There was calm. I felt as though someone had control, and so it was irrational for me to worry, even when I noticed Gemma’s toes had turned black.
To be continued…
