NINE ELEVEN

By Lyn Tolliday

How does an event that shook the world escape your notice, coming across instead as a misshapen portrayal of War of the Worlds?

How does an appointment with a Mortgage Broker end up in the Emergency Department of the QEII Hospital while the rest of the world watches planes fly into buildings?

A phone call. That’s how. A phone call that starts with ‘You don’t know me, but…’ and finishes with ‘…he won’t agree to an ambulance being called.’

A phone call that leads to you driving to a stranger’s house where your son has sought refuge. A stranger you told to ignore your son and call an ambulance anyway before you even got in your car.

A son who had been beaten and thrown into the back of a car. A son who had managed to escape from the back of the car and run. A son who was lucky a stranger opened their door to him. A son who would be dead if they hadn’t. Did he appreciate the kindness of this stranger? No. Rather he accused him of being the police and when informed by the stranger that he was a teacher, announced they were the same thing anyway.

It happens by sitting in the front of an ambulance as they load your son into the back, reminding him to breathe. The radio is on, a little staticky, and a shaky voice announces New York is under attack and that a plane has flown into one of the Twin Towers. A voice that sounds disbelieving.

That’s not how War of the Worlds goes you think and go back to listening to the paramedics talking as they get the gurney fixed into position in the back of the ambulance. Listening to one of them, again, telling your son to breath.

‘David,’ you say. ‘Breathe!’

He does. A gulping breath of much needed air. A few soft breaths, then silence. This happens again and again in the 15 minutes it takes the ambulance to arrive at the hospital. The paramedic tells him to breathe, David ignores him. You order him to breathe, he does. Once at the hospital there is no ramping for this ambulance. In case you didn’t already know, this tells you how serious the situation is.

As you stand in the waiting room because they won’t let you in with him, you recall the bruises on his face, on his chest and ribs. The bruises that reach from just below his shoulder all the way down one side to his hip. You don’t think to ask who or why? You just know it has to do with his drug use and that he has obviously pissed off someone with more weight in the scene than him.

Somewhere during this time you realise the television screens in the waiting areas are showing the same warped version of War of the Worlds as you were hearing on the radio and wonder why. You stop at the vending machine, select a coffee you won’t drink.

A nurse calls you in. You rush to the door, slow down as you approach the treatment cubicle they directed you to; don’t register the name of the doctor who introduces himself. You hear them say his left kidney is bruised and they’re worried about his spleen, it possibly has a small laceration. Or, at least, you think that is what they say. You hear the doctor say, ‘We’ll put a catheter in, check for blood in the urine.’ You hear him tell the nurse to give him 5 milligrams? Micrograms? 5 somethings of morphine.

Your son, who up until now appeared comatose, sits bolt upright and bluntly declares, ‘I came in on 9, what do you think 5’s going to do?’

The doctor never even blinks as he tells the nurse to make it 15 and gently uses his hand on your son’s shoulder to push him back down onto the bed.

Sometime later you comment to that same doctor that, given your son’s drug use history, you were surprised that he upped the dosage of morphine. You half smile as he replies ‘I don’t want my face rearranged when I attempt to catheterise someone. Less painful for all of us this way.’ He’s right.

They take your son up for more scans or x-rays or something. You don’t know; you don’t care so long as you get to know something for sure. So long as you can be relieved of the burden of your fear, at least for a while.

You go back to the waiting room where the movie is still playing, go outside for a cigarette where strangers stand together like long lost friends, seeking comfort in shared worries. You imagine a huddle of penguins, crowded together for warmth; safety in numbers.

Back inside it’s still the same pictures, over and over. You get another coffee from the machine, it’s 3:30am. You’ve been here eight hours. You realise it can’t possibly be the same movie. Stop and read the subscript at the bottom of the screen. Understand, at last, that this is a news report and not a movie. Still don’t comprehend what it’s about. You swirl the dregs of coffee around the cup, stare intently into them but there is no gypsy here to tell you what they mean. You go back in to sit by your son’s side as they update you on his condition. They are waiting for a space for him in the surgical ward, in case they need to operate.

They find him a bed in the Observation Ward. Explain to you that he needs to be kept still and quiet; sudden movement could rupture the spleen. It only takes 3 minutes to bleed to death you think they say. That’s why they want him on the surgical ward. He’ll be in for a week probably. You know he’s not likely to be that cooperative, think Good luck keeping him there, you’ll need it.

The police come to talk with him. The hospital rang them, or maybe it was the ambos, or perhaps the stranger. He refuses to talk to them. He develops rapid onset amnesia; he doesn’t know what happened, nothing happened, he doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Nobody beat him, he fell down the stairs. They give up in frustration, leave their card with him. He screws it up and throws it on the floor, goes back into his morphine-induced rest. You wonder how you’ll get home. Your car is at the stranger’s.

Your phone rings and you leave the observation ward to answer it. You walk outside as you talk. Fish your cigarettes from your bag. It’s 5:00am, you’ve been here nine and a half hours, and the sun isn’t up yet. It’s your sister wanting to know what’s happening. She’s rung your mother who is on her way. You don’t stop to wonder why your sister couldn’t come but rang your mother instead. It never occurred to you that you might need a mother’s arms at this time.

Outside, as you light your cigarette, people are talking about the Twin Towers, and the plane that crashed into the pentagon. Through your exhaustion, you begin to understand what the televisions have been saying all night.

It still means nothing. Perhaps it never will. You just want to go home. Inside, at the vending machine, you use your last coins to get another drink. You hope this one will taste like coffee.