Rainy Thursday at the Royal Melbourne

Not having anything better to do on a rainy Thursday, the Beautiful Daughter and I rocked up to the Royal Melbourne Emergency Department at a truly uncivilized hour for a tedious but necessary blood transfusion (her) and a stint of moral support (me).

This wasn't our first rodeo. We brought snacks, water, and phone chargers. BD brought her tablet and a list of preferred viewing. I brought morale-boosting bad jokes, chocolate, and a commitment to carry bags and make necessary food/coffee runs.

 

Melbourne Hospital ED was running like a duck: all calm on the surface and paddling like blazes beneath the surface.  Mind you, the drunks and wild entertainment were in short supply on a Thursday morning: Thursday morning was the prerogative of the sick, the sad, the elderly, and the mentally ill.  They clustered miserably in the waiting area, clutching painful body parts and vomit bags, while security guards prowled and flirted with the admission clerks and one young man conducted a loud phone conversation which everyone pretended to be either too deaf or too sick to hear.

 

Very uncomfortable seats.

 

After a short 4 hours we graduated to back-of-house, following a blue line past flocks of paramedics shepherding yellow ambulance trolleys loaded with groaning cargo, and settled into a bay where BD had a bed and I had a marginally less uncomfortable seat. The open door of our cubicle provided short stay vignettes: a tired middle aged son standing vigil beside his elderly mother's bed; a young man, enormously overweight, walking slow laps of the hallway on bruised, discoloured legs; a returned traveler being popped quick and smartly into isolation. Blue, black, and multicoloured scrubs kept all the moving parts meshing neatly, stress and tedium and sorrow mixed with with hope and humour and optimism.

 

BD settled down for a nap.  I went for a walk, promising to return with hot chocolate.  Back in the real world, morning had rudely disappeared and Melbourne was sodden and bitterly cold.  I had left my beanie and coat in the car in the morning rush, so relied on brisk walking to warm myself up.

 

Wet Melbourne.

 

It didn't work.  I'm sure I got wetter on account of going faster making me run into more raindrops.  I found the Melbourne markets where an elderly Chinese man zeroed in on my cold wet self and had a red hot shot at selling me a very nice warm puffer jacket which was both reversible and had a hood, and for which he would give a wonderful person such as myself a $10 discount.  I resisted, but only because I already had a very servicable puffer jacket sitting uselessly in a car.  Instead I bought a cheap and nasty bright red hoodie embracing both warmth and terrible fashion in one fell swoop.

 

I had my coffee at a cafe opposite the hospital.  No-one was eating outside.

 

BD awoke and requested progress updates on her hot chocolate.  I duly delivered and we whiled away the afternoon in the parallel timeline of hospital: watching miniseries on her tablet; making bad jokes about vampires and cremation; eating more chocolate. Every so often a nurse popped in with a update on the progress of her (very special recipe) blood.

"It's left the Red Cross.  It's on it's way."

"It's in the hospital."

"It's in the lab."

Dinner came and went.  She ate the mashed potato and vegetables.  I ate the tofu rice (don't ask).  We shared the cheesecake dessert.

 

The good stuff arrived at late o'clock.  Better late than never!

  

"The last train is at midnight," she said.  I couldn't face the thought of spending 4-6 hours (2 units of blood, 2-3hours/unit) trying to stay awake on my poorly padded upright chair.  We debated our options and decided that I would catch the last train home and come back when she needed a lift home.  Hospital is like that these days - the minute you don't need the bed you're out, even if it is 3am and the trains are all asleep.

 

"Text me when you're home" she said.  "The Frankston line has a reputation."  For what she didn't say. 

All aboard.

I caught the tram and then the train through the curious beauty of a wet mid-week city late at night.  A single food delivery person rode quietly through puddles. Billboards made impossible promises to an audience of pigeons and weary tram riders. 

 

 

Health, wealth, beauty, adventure...

The dangers of the Frankston line remained unrevealed and the Nepean Highway, normally flowing a river of traffic past my front door, was silent as I walked home from the railway station. The dogs greeted me with sleepy confusion.

Roger attended to chauffeur duties at 4am, while I slept the sleep of someone who didn't get home until way past bedtime.  I woke up to another cold wet day and two little dogs, waiting for a walk. 

 

"Are you home?" she had texted, at half past midnight.

"Yes," I said, and walked the dogs.