A Little Bit More Of Innocence

It was a Sunday night, and started becoming very busy in the Department.

People were streaming in with problems that needed attending to urgently, and there was a very sick man bleeding to death from his bladder in one of the resuscitation bays.

The evening doctor had kindly stayed on to sort out the dying man, and I was left with free rein of the busy Department.

In the midst of all the chest pains, kidney stones and chronic lung disease patients, there were a host of teenagers as well, which was unusual for a Sunday night.

One of them was the hospital's littlest orphan, on her second-daily visit to the hospital, asking for someone to look at her sore neck at 2 a.m. because she had tripped over her dog and hit her neck on the edge of the door. The nurses tell me that she had been in not too long ago faking the same complaint - she had found another trigger for the staff to finally pay attention - they had put her in a collar, scanned her head. She devoured the attention, her large unblinking eyes surreptitiously smiling at all the fuss, and had hoped for a repeat of the same tonight.

Another boy and his undistinguished partner came in after having a longer than usual seizure that night - he was flailing his arms and legs for a good 15 minutes and she was worried enough to bring him in. I remembered him from one of my shifts before, and recognised that he had another pseudoseizure, a psychological variation of actual seizures, and took some blood off him and watched him for a couple of hours.

I was trying to suppress my surprise when I found out that he was the littlest orphan's brother.

Two siblings separated only by the entrance door to the Emergency Department. She didn't seem to acknowledge his presence in the Department, and I don't think she acknowledged him outside either.

The boy's partner was someone who you wouldn't have cast a second glance at on the streets. Nothing about her turned heads to look, nothing about her personality invited further probing questions. She was plain in every sense of the word.

The evening doctor remembers her from last night, though. She had come in for some vague medical issue, and cried in pain the moment the nurses put the tourniquet on her in order to take blood. We're not even talking about the needle yet. Just a tight band around her upper arm, and she started crying uncontrollably.

Where kids their age were going to parties, or pubs, deciding which university to go to, or which jobs to interview for, these three frequented the hospital instead.

The last teenager that night was a nineteen-year-old girl and her young partner, the 'love of her life'. I saw her yesterday night when she thought that she had vomited up blood in her toilet.

We had taken bloods from her and given her fluids, when an hour later she threatened to discharge herself. Luckily the pathologist was in, and the bloods were processed, and there was nothing of immediate danger so we sent her off.

Tonight, however, the boyfriend explained that she had had about eight cans of Victoria Bitters, and they were out looking for her missing dog when she fell down and had a seizure. Her seizure sounded bona fide, and there was a strong family history of her father and grandfather having it too. And dying from it.

Once again, when she had sobered up, she wanted to leave.

You don't understand, you are endangering your life if you leave now, I try to tell her.

I HATE HOSPITALS! she complained vehemently. I know my rights, and I will sign whatever paperwork I have to, to get out of here.

But you might die! I protest.

Look at these! she upturned her hands defiantly, and you could see the multiple slash marks across her wrist where she had previously cut herself. You think I give a damn about dying?

I attempt a softer approach. You know, I understand life has been hard for you, and...

She arced up.

Understand? How could you understand anything? I have been fending for myself since I was ten years old and...

Hey, don't get started, her boyfriend's voice is soothing across the room. I liked him when I met him yesterday, and you could see that he was the one thing going for her in her nineteen-year-old life.

I sensed an opportunity.

It's not just about you, you know. Think about the people who love you.

Her voice was steady but precarious. I will look after myself, okay? I have been looking after myself for a long time now. I will get that brain scan in the morning...

How do I know that? I ask.

Well, the love of my life will ensure it! she says, turning towards him.

He was sitting atop the counter in the room, his hunched shoulders supporting his intoxicated face. He looked away uncomfortably, his hunched shoulders too small to bear the burden as the love of her life.

Sometimes we go about our middle-class lives sheltered from the cries of this broken world we live in. We worry about the meaning of life while some people worry about simply living. We worry about our careers, our cars, how we can save for the latest iPhone and what Europe will look like this time of the year.

Modern Day Prophet

I can't get over this song from Jason Mraz while thinking about these orphans - both the real ones and the with-parents-like-that-they-might-as-well-be ones.

When the house was left in shambles
Who was there to handle all the broken bits of glass
Was it Mum who put my Dad out on his ass
or the other way around?
Well I'm far too old to care about that now.

And taking drugs and making love at far too young an age
And they never checked to see my grades
What a fool I'd be to start complaining now

What about taking this empty cup and filling it up
With a little bit more of innocence
I haven't had enough it's probably because...

When you're young it's okay to be easily ignored,
I'd like to believe it's all about love for a child.

Dear God, please look after and love our orphans in the way we have failed to.