17:30 The floor I
stare at is pale grey; shiny with upturned edges, stained around the doors. The
walls off-white with two raised bands of
yellow running round them at waist height. The doors are edged in a cheerful
bright blue, but the lighting is unvaried florescent white which sucks any
cheer from this bleak place dedicated to inactivity in ignorance - seemingly
endless waiting. There is a television but it's not switched on. There is a
place to plug in a laptop, and there are two doors marked with the
international symbols for male and female. Opposite the entrance is a kiosk
where you hand in your papers, and to the left a door through which, half an
hour ago, Thelma was ushered by a medic of some kind who said to me, in
English: "You - wait outside."
With nothing to read, a phone on the point of
expiring, and no idea what is going on behind the door, I enter a state
not dissimilar to that of the bird
watcher - the silent careful slow wait for something to happen. Physically the
sensation is similar, but emotionally it is way removed from the contemplation
of nature. My other half, the person who means most to me in the world, is in
there worried about her chest pain. I have no idea what they are doing with her
or how long it will be before I have some news. I don't know if she will walk
out or be somehow hospitalised.
18:45 The longest I
ever waited in a bird hide with nothing to show for it was 2hours and soon I
will reach that point here. One man, tall, burly, red T shirt rising over a
middle-aged belly, paces to and fro. He is not walking to get anywhere, but
performing the sort of rhythmic rocking movement of one foot in front of the
other which you see in caged animals. People
enter, look around, walk down one of the corridors. Some know each other
and chat. Various members of staff use a pass key to open the door where Thelma
disappeared.
19:30 Two and a half
hours. A tall man with a stethoscope comes out of the magic door and speaks to
the small group to my left - the man short, full head of white hair,
incongruously smart in a white jacket, black trousers, smart shoes; also pacing
up and down. They seem reassured and the tall man disappears again.
19:45 I decide I've
nothing to lose by asking and accost the stethoscope man. He says he will find
out.
20:00 Three hours,
but suddenly I am in and there she is in a wheel chair. The porter tells me
loudly that I can come with them up to the cardiac ward. She is to be admitted
for more tests, but steth man is encouraging: they are being cautious.
20:30 On the 30
minute walk back to the flat I feel a sense of relief. There is a problem but
it is being dealt with and we have caught it in time. I feel a sense of purpose
again. At our age in a strange country that seems like a result.
28 Sept:
How well I was to
get to know those long corridors. The hospital is not unlike Glangwili in
Carmarthen. Both were built to serve a large rural hinterland, but in the case
of Dubrovnik that Yugoslav hinterland is now in Montenegro and Bosnia, so the
corridors echo with too few footfalls, the wards have few patients, and, though
the standard of care is high, the waiting and the things not working are no
better than our cash starved NHS.
For two days I made
the 30 minute walk from one side of the new city to the other twice a day.
After countless steps down to the harbour, and even more up to the hospital,
walking along the cool, level corridors was a relief from the hot sun. I walked
past the place where I waited for 3 dreary hours and found that - where I saw people step briskly round the
corner and disappear into no-man's land - that corridor actually led to the
main part of the hospital: a big welcoming space with a thriving café and a
reception desk staffed always by just one person. It led to other corridors,
some with cheerful colours and good lighting. One with some kind of commercial
optics booth, but with nobody in it.
"You" said
the loud porter "You go to reception sign to admit your wife. Then you go
down corridor to the lift and go to first floor. Look for Cardiology."
"That's
Kardiology with a K then?"
"Yes,
yes." He smiled. Small victory.
It still wasn't easy
to find. When none of the signs make sense it's not hard to get lost. After a
few wrong turnings and more long corridors, I found the ward, but the door to
it was locked. I pressed the bell and a nurse, or orderly, or surgeon, or matron
. . . well, someone in a white coat, let me in and led me to where Thelma was
sitting in a wheel chair looking lost. Three hours ago she was walking normally
as we entered the emergency department. Her chest was hurting and she was
worried, but otherwise she was the same on holiday person she had been the day
before.
Now she is a
patient. She is pierced with tubes, wrapped in a garment which falls open if
she leans forward, unable to leave the bed, doped and controlled. What is
happening to her?
