Crisis of Identity

The Royal Perth Hospital Emergency Department only provides a row of six short-term car parking bays, to drop off patients. Technically, I wasn’t dropping off a patient but I parked in the only available space anyway, then rushed inside.

The automatic doors parted as I ran into the Emergency Department. Signs directed me to the Reception/Triage desk. A Nurse seated behind a window looked up at me from her clipboard.

’My mother was just brought in by ambulance… Vicky Miller… She’s fifty-eight,’ I blurted.

The nurse checked a list beside her. She glanced back to her right, to an area out of my line of sight, while I anxiously tapped my hands on the counter.

‘Your mother is currently undergoing some tests so I—’

‘Tests… What sort of tests…?’

‘Well… She’ll have an x-ray, some blood tests, but at the moment she is undergoing an Electrocardiogram.’

‘What does that involve?’

‘It will assess her heart rate and rhythm. The doctors will be looking for signs of heart disease, heart attack, an enlarged heart, or abnormal heart rhythms that may cause heart failure.’

‘She’s going to be OK… Right?’

‘You said she is your mother? What is your name?’

‘Kade… Kade. Miller.’

‘OK, Kade. Your mum is in good hands,’ the Nurse reassured. ‘The best thing for you at the moment is to relax.’ She gestured with her pen. ‘Take a seat over there in the waiting room and I’ll call you when she is back from her tests.’

The waiting room, located off to the side of the entry foyer, smelled of stale air and misery. The twelve or so people seated among the rows of chairs gave me assessing glances when I entered. I slid onto a seat close to the entry.

Apart from the young woman bouncing a screaming toddler on her knee, most of those waiting stared blankly at the floor, or at the wall mounted TV looping news highlights, broken at intervals by medical advertisements and health messages.

There was no talking or interaction. Everyone shared the same expression of Emergency Department wait time intolerance.

As time passed more people wandered in adding to the growing list of those waiting to be attended to. I found myself glancing around the room wondering what each person was in here for. A common thought kept recurring—I hope what they have isn’t contagious?

A bloke about my age, wearing baggy grey trackie pants and a black Nike hoodie and thongs wandered in and sat two seats from me. He nodded a muted greeting as he sat. I nodded back then checked my watch, hoping the nurses would hurry up.

Old mate next to me leaned in closer. ‘You don’t happen to have a spare dart, by any chance do ya, mate?’ He said feigning smoking by moving two fingers to his mouth.

While appearing personable, this guy was not someone I usually associate with. His emaciated face was pallid and sunken. The backs of his hands and the front of his neck were splattered with tattoos. What teeth he had left were crooked and yellowed.

‘Sorry, mate. Don’t smoke.’

He regarded me, unconvinced, as he said, ‘OK. Cheers any way.’

I checked my watch then checked out the Triage Nurse, hoping for some indication mum was back from her tests.

While I waited I watched the procession of arrivals filling the waiting room. An older guy, cradling a hand wrapped in a blood soaked bandage, accompanied by a similar aged woman, rushed up to the triage reception. His face echoed his apparent pain. He went straight through to the treatment rooms.

Just as my bum was starting to numb, a Nurse approached the waiting room. All eyes in the room watched in anticipation, no doubt hoping it was their turn. She paused at the waiting room entry. Her scanning eyes met me. ‘Kade Miller?’ She asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Can you come with me please...’

I jumped to my feet. I tried to get a read on her expression. ‘Is my mum OK..?’

A woman from behind moaned out loud about how unfair it is because she has been waiting longer than me.

‘Your mother suffered a heart attack… but she is stable,’ the Nurse said. ‘We have moved her up to the ICU… I’ll take you up.’

According to the floor-by-floor tenancy listing on the elevator wall, we exited at the 2nd floor Intensive Care Unit. I followed my escort passed the Nurses Station, down wide, seemingly never ending corridors, lined on either side with patient rooms.

Apart from a couple of two-bed wards, most of the rooms we passed were shared wards, with a bed in each corner, separated by a light blue curtain.

‘This is the Cardiac Care Unit,’ the nurse said, like a tour guide, as we strolled. ‘This is where we will bring your mother, once she fully stabilizes.’

’OK… Into one of these wards…?’ I said gesturing to the four-bed ward we passed.

‘That’s right…’

‘Will that only be temporary…?’ I asked on behalf of mum. Not that mum has had many, but all her previous hospital stays were in a single-bed, private room in our private hospital. We each pay handsomely for the privilege through our private health insurance. So she will not approve of this four-bed, shared ward in a public hospital.

‘Are you referring to the shared ward…?’

‘Yes. My mum would definitely prefer a private room…’

‘There are no private rooms available at the moment but… There may be a two-bed ward available. I’ll see what I can do. OK?’

I shrugged my disapproval. ‘Doesn’t sound like we have much choice… does it?’

The Nurse appeared to ignore my comments and deflected the conversation. ‘I understand it was you who found your mother.’

‘That’s correct. She collapsed while I was talking to her on the phone.’

‘The Paramedics said you performed CPR on her…’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well you should be very proud of yourself. From what the Paramedics said, your CPR saved your mum’s life…’

Those words resonated deeply as we continued along the endless corridors. My biggest fear the whole time I was working on mum was that I going to lose her because my CPR skills were not current.

The feeling of overwhelming relief when the Paramedics arrived can never be overstated. It was a case of, the experts were here. mum now has a chance.

After a series of left and right turns that caused me to question the size of this hospital, we arrived at the ICU. The sign on the closed door warned me to turn off my mobile phone and to ensure I refrain from entering if I feel unwell.

Following a compulsory squirt from the wall-mounted hand sanitizer, my escort opened the ICU ward door. I followed her down another corridor into the Ward. Rows of cubicles with curtain fronts, most of which were open, surrounded the fishbowl style Nurse and Doctor station.

The Nurse stopped at the 4th cubicle along and gestured inside. The front curtain was open. ‘Your mother is resting at the moment but you can go in and sit with her.’

The sight of mum lying there caught me off guard. I was taken aback. I don’t know what I expected to see, but it wasn’t what confronted me.

Mum was not conscious. She wore a full face mask, hooked up to oxygen. An IV drip was attached to her hand. Beeping and flashing monitors stood guard beside her bed.

I slid into the only chair beside mum’s bed. The prominent lump on her forehead was now a darker shade of purple.

I cradled mum’s hand, careful not to dislodge the oxygen clamp on her finger. Her hand was warm. Tears welled as I watched her sleeping.

She has to pull through this; she is too important to me. I don’t want to lose her too. But the more I had time to think, the more the anger inside me raged. Mum is here because of Dawes. She is here because his DNA warrant forced mum to provide a sample against her will. It was the final straw for mum.