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As some of you know, I’m typing this one-handed. Which isn’t a terrible copywriting tip – put one arm in a sling and you’ll rethink those extraneous adverbs, you loquacious word-vomiter…

But that’s not why I’m here.

Last night*, I spent 6 hours in the emergency room with a busted chin, a separated shoulder and a phone battery running down quicker than you can say, “Darn it – should’ve grabbed my charger.”

And it was eye-opening. Mainly because, unlike my fellow (and fully charged) inmates, my gaze wasn’t cast downwards.

6 hours. Just sitting. And I survived. Wasn’t even that hard – even for a phone addict, like me.

Turns out, this hive of activity was plenty entertaining. I hardly ever get this kind of opportunity anymore; to closely observe a bunch of people whose only shared attribute is being stuck in a plastic seat for the foreseeable future.

The ER is a great leveller; no matter what kind of car you pull up in, if life rises up out of nowhere and hands you your ass, that’s where you end up.

If I closed my eyes, I could pick individual voices out of the hum, like notes in a chord. And, as I allowed people to drift in and out of my focus, their stories met mine and danced a while.

Which, incidentally, brings to mind the word?“sonder”, on which I’ve mused before. Everyone is living their own complex story. These characters weren’t extras in my soap opera, we were each starring in our own. And I could surf channels at will.

One young man, wearing designer-ripped skinny jeans and a wild look in his eye, was calling everyone in his phonebook to announce his appendicitis. Loudly. Casting his eyes around to make sure we’d all heard. I’m guessing this tiny disaster made him feel special – in that way an eminently survivable crisis can. They’re a forced break from the mundane and, once resolved, can be cashed in for 15 minutes of fame. He wasn’t about to waste this opportunity.

I was quickly reminded how inescapably raw and intimate our interactions are within a medical setting. There’s nowhere to hide if someone asks what medications you take and why. Or about your bowel movements. Or how long you’ve been a heavy smoker. You just have to answer. And every one of these interactions was a masterclass in dialogue and tone of voice. A doctor could go from having a serious conversation about low oxygen levels to laughing with a colleague about their choice of sneakers, with only a curtain to divide these two personas.

After an hour or two, I was ushered into a ward and offered yet another plastic seat. This time opposite a lady with possible broken ribs. We sat silently for the first 15 minutes, but the excruciating small talk that followed soon gave way to easy conversation.

In some ways, she couldn’t have been more different from me – she talked of struggles I pray I’ll never know. But, on balance, we had more in common than not.

Like me, she had four kids 10 and under. She’d struggled with home-schooling during lockdown. She was planning a wedding and lit up as she shared pictures of her dress and conducted a one-person debate on the topic of colour schemes. She enjoyed her job as a cleaner in a hotel, where she had a nice group of girls to chat to. But she’d have to find something else soon – her hours were being reduced. And, anyway, she really needed something closer to home.

When she talked about her fiancé, her pride was obvious. He’d earned himself a good reputation at his job, working as a panel beater; the guy who owned the joint had come to rely on him. He’d been overworked and undervalued at the last place. He was so much happier. He was a great step-dad to her three boys and doted on their young daughter.

I asked her what she did in her day-to-day that brought her joy. She laughed off the idea but, after thinking it over, recounted her days playing netball in high school. I watched her consider taking it up again, then discard the idea. Too out of shape, she said. She locked this ill-fitting part of herself back in its box. I hope she takes it out again.

Eventually, she was whisked off for examination, having volunteered her entire life story, but taking very few details about me with her. Not that I was complaining. But isn’t it amazing what people will tell you if you leave a space for them to fill?

Next came my doctor, Viktor. He was 12. He worked slowly and deliberately through the mental checkpoints of assessing my shoulder and chin. This was quite possibly his first time gluing a facial wound. His hands shook. I equal parts wanted to hug him and run from the room begging for someone who inspired more confidence.

Before granting me leave to go, he asked if I had any questions. “No,” I said, “But I do want to thank you for taking such good care of me today.” A latent teenaged tendency to shrug off compliments flashed over his face and he threw me a “Lovely getting to know you,” before ducking out through the curtain.

It was well after midnight by this stage. I was exhausted. But my mind, long starved of these kinds of random, in-person interactions, was happily patting its belly.

If you came here looking for copywriting tips, just take this with you: thank goodness my phone wasn’t charged. I’d have missed all of it.

***This is a repost - all this went down around 9 months ago. My injuries have healed but I still have a cool pirate scar to remind me what I learned ;)

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