Lenworth Burke, Contributor
Lenworth Burke
I WALK down the outdoor corridor. The grass is parched on both sides. On one hand, mounds of old hospital beds, rusting chairs and tables, and construction debris are strewn about.
On the other, there is an abandoned building littered with unserviceable medical equipment - second-hand gifts from the First World. Behind me, two porters are making a racket pushing a decrepit overloaded trolley.
The corridor comes to an end. I push the swing door to the waiting-room of the radiation therapy department and am greeted by the sharp smell of disinfectant and the whining of the overhead fan struggling against the heat.
The silent crowd with the usual mix of patients is there. I recognise some of them: an old woman propped up in a corner of a bench labouring for breath and supported by a middle-aged woman; a thin young man on a stretcher staring at the ceiling; a young child holding its shaved head I'm still not sure whether it's male or female, and moaning feebly, restless in the cradle of its mother's arms, its toys and sweets discarded to the floor.
The mother's face is permanently etched in worry. Her lips quiver with the ceaseless prayers I have watched her mouth for weeks, but the deterioration in the child has been relentless.
In the corner where we used to wait, another young man sits in another wheelchair, his head leaning against the wall. A slightly older man, bearing some resemblance to him, stands beside the wheelchair with one arm across his chest and the other supporting his chin. The big double doors of the radiation room are closed.
I mutter a 'Good afternoon' to no one in particular and walk over to the door with the sign that says: 'Senior Radiographer'. A tiny window has been cut into the door.
I peer through the glass into the poorly-lit room and see her sitting behind her small desk, enormously fat, and calm as ever. I know she has some kind of illness herself. I knock lightly. She raises her head and motions me in with the barest of movements. I turn the lock, push the door and find her stare fixed on me.
'My brother, he's gone,' I say.
'I know.'
'He died day before yesterday.'
'Yes.'
'When the pain reached the bones we had him admitted to the hospice.'
She purses her lips.
'I just wanted to come back and say thanks for everything.'
She gives a nod and the folds of skin beneath her chin wiggle a little.
'We really appreciated your help, Mama especially. The last few weeks have been horrible for all of us.'
'I know.'
'I remember when we first started to come here he would be fully dressed and would carry his wallet and his cellphone and his jewellery and his comb. Then, after a while, he gave up all the little things.'
'Yes, and kept his faith and hope.'
'Yes, but I couldn't.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Thanks again. We really appreciate everything.'
She smiles kindly, and I stare at the mountains of tattered unruly patient dockets on her desk.
'I realise,' I say, looking down at her as she mops her forehead, 'that your job must be hellish seeing them come and go along the corridor day after day. And then you have budget cuts, low salaries, staff shortages, machine breakdowns, power cuts.'
She smiles without parting her lips, and raises her eyebrows.
I hear the familiar creaking of the double doors being opened and the rustling in the waiting room.
I stretch out my arm, she shakes it with a surprisingly firm grip, and I bend down and kiss her hand. I straighten up and say:
'At least I don't have to come back here again.'
'You know,' she says, planting her hands on the desk, pushing the chair back, rising slowly to full height, and looking me in the eyes, 'it's not so bad. Every day, I see the greatest things friends helping friends, children looking after parents, brothers caring for brothers.'
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