The Patient in Bed 12

As I sat there waiting for someone to bring me a cup to spit into, a wail went up from the other side of the room. People stopped, a collective prayer went up to a myriad of deities– silently, everyone in the room asked for mercy. Our silence was torn up by the mother and son lamenting the passing of a man. He had come in with a cardiac arrest– a male nurse had been trying to resuscitate him for about twenty minutes, but to no avail.

A doctor had come to my bed just a few minutes before and had started asking me questions which I answered halfheartedly. I wanted to see what was going on at bed 12. I had to tear myself away from the drama and answer him seriously. My problems looked pale in comparison and he knew that too. Just as he was about to take my blood, the crying began. The melee at the other side of the room dispersed– the doctors walked away. All the nurses but one went to attend other patients. Now it was time for the family.

I could only see the son from my vantage point. A man of thirty five perhaps, he moved tentatively towards his still father. As if a weight had fallen over him he collapsed by the bedside, crying his eyes out. Seeing this, what I can only assume was his mother thrust her arms up in the air and cried out. These are the moments I wish I knew Arabic fluently. What did that woman say to her lord? That the man who had just passed was a good man? That he did not deserve it? That his life had been taken away too fast, too easily? What sorrow marked her words I shall never know.

All I could make out was one prayer, a prayer all Muslims recite when they hear of someone's death. Oh Gracious Lord, this servant of Yours whom You put on this earth, has returned to Your realm from whence he came.I could not help but pray.

An hour later, more family members had arrived and sorrow filled the room even though the family was behind curtains. As I was taken out of the ER for my x-ray, I saw a little boy of 12 sitting outside the curtained walls of bed 12. He stared at the curtains as if transfixed, not knowing what had happened or perhaps, knowing exactly what had. He sat there, as if on the brink of an epiphany; his eyes were moist but it was clear that the sorrow he felt inside had not let out yet. He looked up and we locked eyes for a minute, but it felt like ages. I held out my hand and to my surprise, he came to me. I sat him on my lap and decided to take him to the x-ray room with me. The man pushing my wheelchair protested, I told him to mind his own business.

I couldn't say anything to the child, I did not speak his language and besides, he didn't need words, he needed someone. He'd have enough words later, his family would take turns to explain to him what had happened to his grandfather. After my x-ray, I took him to a drinking fountain and he drank as if he had never seen water before, relishing its taste- half of it trailing down his hands on to the floor. I dropped him off at his family's side, said a little prayer, and went back to my bed.

The patient in bed 12 died last night at 11:36 pm. I did not know him, and neither did he know me. As I left the ER a few hours later to go home, I saw the little boy sitting nestled in his father's lap, who was crying uncontrollably. The boy wrestled himself away from his grieving father, came over to me and shook my hand.

I might not have known his grandfather but that child and I know each other well. And it is for him that I grieve.