Ernest Hemingway wrote a short story called, “Hills Like White Elephants.” In it, the narrator relays a conversation they overheard between a young couple on vacation. The conversation reveals much more than the words the two use and effectively paints a picture of the wider tale of their life together. It’s one of the stories that makes writers, and lit professors urge you to read Hemingway despite the overly macho and often sexist tones some of his stories take. The man’s ability to speak volumes in just a few sentences is almost unparalleled in American literature.
Sunday night, my sister was taken to Parkland Hospital with what we believed to be appendicitis. I spent the whole night sitting, standing, and pacing in the ER’s waiting room. It didn’t take long to adjust to my surroundings. Two homeless men slept in the chairs and discreetly peddled for change, a trio of old people sat calmly and worked on their sudoku books through the wee hours of the morning, the rest of us sat quietly save the occasional pleasantries when two or more of us would move for the vending machines at the same time.
There was another guy who I noticed not long after my arrival. He was short and kind of dorky looking ( I realize we’re veering into pot vs. kettle territory here) with rapidly balding hair despite his youth and one of those godawful chin beards hanging two or three inches below his head. He stuck out not only because of his appearance, but also because he never fully joined our silent waiting room community, but instead he would occasionally bounce back and forth down the hallway like the duck at a shooting range. Slowly, as the hours wore on he was joined by more and more people who would bounce around with him muttering about who still needed to be called.
I was stretching my legs in the hallway when it happened. I heard loud sobs coming from around the corner. Heavy, painful tears, the kind that make you want to join in without even being given a reason. Chin-Beard was escorting a young woman from his party outside. A few minutes later a couple others from the group walked past with another hysterical woman in tow. Then again. That was the worst part, having to experience that awkward walk of shame three or four times instead of getting it over with in one sobbing mass. I couldn’t sit still. The sad parade reminded me of the time I’d lost control crying in a hospital. I needed to walk around and clear my head, but the moment I stepped through the automatic doors they were there, standing between me and the parking garage. The first girl I’d watched leave was crying so hard she started throwing up on the sidewalk. The others had more or less sobered themselves in order to try and comfort her. For my part I decided not to intrude and went back inside.
I was standing in the same spot in the hallway when they came back inside. Just the young woman, another girl about the same age and one woman who was much older. The second young woman stormed past me calling out to her friends that she had to, “Get back in there.” The other two stopped at the information desk and I heard them ask how to get to Children’s hospital. The first young woman was still out of control. I couldn’t hear the entire conversation so my picture of the events aren’t as clear as those in Hemingway’s story, but I clearly heard the older woman saying firmly, “It’s not your fault. They were acting young and carefree. It’s not your fault.” She repeated the refrain. The girl just cried.
At 9:45 the next morning my sister was released from the hospital, her appendix still on the inside. The doctors thought she may still be in the beginning stages of appendicitis, but none of their tests allowed them to be sure. They just didn’t really know what was going on.
