Visiting Hours

A Trip to the Hospital

The first thing that hits you is the smell. A sharp, antiseptic coolness that envelopes you and makes your skin crawl the minute you set foot inside a hospital. The signature fragrance of healthcare. Your pulse quickens and you are filled with a sense of foreboding. (You imagine Pavlov going, Aha!).

You look over the bowed heads of the morose, listless people scattered across the foyer and spot the reception desk at the opposite corner. As you approach it, you realise it is less of a desk and more of a glass cage with three evenly spaced semi-circular holes. Like coupon-selling counters in a flea market, which feels oddly appropriate. (“Hi, can I get a coupon for a new kidney please? Thanks.”)

One of the glass panels has “MAY I HELP YOU” emblazoned across it. Behind it sits a man with an expression that dares you to put that instruction into practice. You ask him the way to the ward you want to visit. He ignores you and continues reading the newspaper. You clear your throat and ask again, a little louder this time. He shifts his gaze to you and his brow furrows. You are bathed in shame. He mutters something about the 2nd floor, clearly disgusted at having to engage with the likes of you. You consider asking him to direct you towards the lift or the stairwell but he has already taken refuge behind his newspaper. It seems he doesn’t want to be here anymore than you do.

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You find the broad walking ramps snaking up the side of the building and make your way to the 2nd floor. A group of people are gathered at the entrance to the ward. You join their ranks and check the time - 15 more minutes to kill before the guards open the gates and let you in. You fish a banana out of your bag and chomp it down. Then you eat a packet of biscuits. It is when you follow that up with a half-pound cake that a few incredulous eyes turn towards you. You feel the colour rising in your cheeks but you stare into the middle distance and concentrate on chewing. You can’t help it if being nervous makes you hungry. You did feel a little self-conscious when you were packing all this fare in your bag but it had to be done. The hospital canteen, in a remarkable show of loyalty, serves food that is solely meant to support the hospital’s gastroenterology department. If you want to stay on the right side of the ward gates, you must carry your own nourishment.

At precisely 5 PM, the guards make way to let a stream of visitors trickle into the ward. You let their currents carry you awhile, till they branch off into different directions and leave you with a solitary walk to the end of the ward where the Intensive Care Unit is located. Stepping into the ICU is, as always, unsettling. It is too bright, too cold, too tainted by fear and desperate hope.

You arrange your face into a smile and walk over to the designated bed. You speak a few words of encouragement. You gingerly pat an arm which has all manners of tubes piercing into it. You exchange a few words with the resident doctor. You steal a glance at your watch and notice that only 7 minutes have passed since you entered the ICU. You can - should? - stay here for 23 more minutes but you want to leave. You are not accustomed to seeing the human body look so fragile, so tenuous. You cannot bear it. You feel like you are trapped inside an engine room filled with gear trains and intricate springs in a delicate balance, their ceaseless clicking and beeping burrowing into your brain. It is all too overwhelming.

You mumble your goodbyes and hurry to the exit. You don’t stop walking until you’ve left the ICU, the ward, the hospital building. You take a deep breath. You are wracked by guilt, yes, but you are also relieved. An unbidden image of the ICU bed and its occupant pops into your head, knotting your stomach. You know you should go back with as much certainty as you know you will not.

Tomorrow, you tell yourself. I will do better tomorrow.

In the end, that’s all we can hope to do, isn’t it?