The emergency room

Mirza has lived with us for several months to facilitate her going to high school. She lives too far to commute. One day this week we got a call saying she had gotten sick at school, and was in the emergency room of the hospital. The doctor said it was from the heat, which didn't make sense, since it was cool and rainy, but he had ordered an intravenous something or other and we had to wait until she had finished that treatment before we could take her home. So, we spent an hour or so waiting in the waiting room just outside of emergency.

The room had three wooden benches against the walls. One of the benches was mostly taken up by a very elderly gentlemen who was also getting an intravenous something or other, but since there was no bed available in the emergency room, he was lying on a bench in the waiting room. He didn't move or make a sound the whole time he was there. When a space became available, his sons picked him up and carried him in, ignoring the wheelchair that was sitting right beside them.

The bench across from the elderly gentleman seemed to be occupied by members of one family. There were four adults and an active little girl about two. The little girl kept trying to peel the black plastic that was already coming off of the glass door. They just sat there for a long time. On the same bench was a woman who was complaining of a very sore throat. She kept getting up and pacing and sitting down again. The lady and the family finally left. I didn't see any of them talk to a doctor or nurse.

We sat down on one end of the third bench. At the other end was a very pregnant young woman with a small diaper bag on one side of her and a nervous looking young man on the other. I didn't see them talk to a doctor either. Between John and I and the nervous young man and his wife, a large suggestion box stuck out from the wall. I kept hitting my head on it.

My guess is that it was a relatively quiet night in the emergency room. No sirens, no frantic people, no rushing around. At one point, a young boy about seven years old came in, carried on the shoulders of his father (I suppose). His foot was wrapped in what used to be a white cloth, which was soaked in blood. The blood dripped on the floor of the waiting room. No one mopped it up. The boy was extraordinarily calm, I thought. I think riding on his father's shoulders was a bigger deal than having cut his foot. Mirza said later that it turned out to be less than it looked like. It was just a piece of glass.

Mirza also said later that the doctor on duty had had quite a conversation with one of the patients. The doctor had said, "We can't help you here. You need to go to the hospital in San Pedro."
"I won't go," the woman answered.
.....(continued conversation).....
"Who do you think is in charge here," the doctor demanded, rather irritated.
"I am," the woman responded.
"No," the doctor continued "...I am the doctor, I am in charge."

I don't know which of the two was correct. I was just glad it wasn`t me.