Kim Robinson

When they thought my father would die soon, they moved him to the front of the ward, across from the nurses' station. He had a tube down his nose that he kept trying to yank out, so they decided to restrain him. They tied his wrists to the bed rails.

Each day we would go there, half expecting to see an empty bed. I went in the mornings, and back in the evenings. Sometimes I also went at lunchtime.

It was a ward for kidney and cancer patients. There were some who had been there a long time; many others who came back regularly, for dialysis or chemotherapy, and were well known and had made friends with other patients; and there were those who had been admitted straight to the front of the ward, and those others who had been moved up to the front from the back. Those in that last group, to which my father belonged, didn't usually get to return to their friends at the back.

The ward was full. The staff was small. Those of us able to afford it had hired a private nurse to supplement the ward staff. The private nurses would give their patients baths, or feed them, or bring them a bedpan, or help them in any other way, or keep their company. Those who could not afford it had to wait for their relatives' visits, or had to manage as best they could.

One lunchtime, I offered to relieve our private nurse for an hour or two. I sat beside my father's bed, watching him toss and jerk, semi-conscious, delirious, trying to pull his hands free from the restraining bands. You have to harden yourself at times like these. You have to stare stony-faced ahead, or read your newspaper determinedly, praying that he will quieten, or praying that they will decide that he doesn't need the tube anymore. Or just praying.

I heard a whimper from across the room. I looked over; there was a young girl. She looked 16 or 17, a skinny girl in a thin-strapped pale pink nightgown with an oxygen mask on her face and large frightened eyes. I hadn't noticed her before; she must have been moved there that morning.

I returned my gaze to my father.

The girl's whimpers grew to loud moans. I looked over again. The nurses' station was empty. There was no nurse in sight. You have to harden yourself at times like these. I looked at my newspaper.

The loud moans turned to louder muffled wails. A nurse finally appeared. She was heavy with pregnancy; her belly jutted out huge from her slim compact body.

'Wha wrong wid yu? Why yu mekin so much noise?' the nurse demanded. The muffled wails reverted to moans. 'A can't deal wid yu now,' the nurse said crossly, and went back down the ward.

Time passed. My father tossed, and spoke incoherently of many things. The girl moaned, and the moans turned to wails again, muffled beneath the oxygen mask, but clearly desperate.

Eventually, I could not ignore her anymore. I went over to her, I touched her hand. She looked at me, her eyes saucer wide with fright. I made soothing sounds. She stared.

She moaned.

I called the nurse. No response.

I called the nurse again. No response.

I went back to my father.

The moans turned again to wails.

I went down the ward and found the nurse. She seemed to be the only one on duty. She was attending to another patient. I stood there for a while, then said nervously, 'Nurse?'

She ignored me.

'Nurse?'

She finally turned to me. 'Yes?'

'Nurse, the young girl at the front needs some attention.'

'I can't come now, I'll soon be there.'

'Nurse, she seems scared.'

She kissed her teeth.

I went back to my father.

The girl wailed louder beneath the oxygen mask.

Finally the nurse appeared. She was in a temper.

'What's wrong with you? Why you carrying on so? Why you going on like a baby? Stop the noise! Stop the noise!' the nurse shrieked. She grabbed the oxygen mask and roughly adjusted it, then flounced off. 'Stop making that noise, yu hear? Behave yourself, you're a big girl, not a baby!' She disappeared.

You have to harden yourself at times like these. I shut out the girl's noises. I want to think they eventually subsided. I know that when I went back that evening, the girl's mother was there, a humble-looking woman who had brought toiletries for her daughter in a plastic bag. A bottle of cologne, a flask of talcum powder, a hairbrush and a washrag had been unpacked and were now placed neatly on the bedside table. The plastic bag was neatly folded. The woman sat by her daughter's bed and held her hand and stroked her head and sang softly to her. The girl was quiet.

My father continued to toss and pull. When I left at the close of visiting hours he was rambling incoherently. The girl's mother was still across from us, sitting at her daughter's bedside.

The next morning I paid my usual visit to the hospital before going to my office. As always, I entered the ward nervously. Please let him be there.

He was. He was sleeping quietly. They had removed the tube from his nose, removed the restraints from his wrists. The resident doctor greeted me with a smile.

Thank God, I said.

Then I looked across the room. The girl's bed was empty.

Just then, the girl's mother entered the ward. She went straight to the bed, saw it empty, started screaming. The resident doctor went up to her and put his arm around her.

The pregnant nurse appeared. Did I imagine it or did she too stare at the empty bed for a few seconds? Then she collected the tray of morning medications, went down to the bottom of the ward. She avoided my gaze.

You have to harden yourself at times like these.

END

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