Rant: Lynch

Last night, I had to take my best friend to the emergency room in Northridge, CA.

Before I start, let me preface by saying she's fine. This isn't a story about her or me. This is a story about a man I've never met.

I'd been to the emergency room before, once, in Vancouver and it felt like something from Dante's Inferno. After each hours long wait you'd only peel past a layer, with five, six, seven, more to go. Each person was a poor soul trapped, the older man with his foot in a tub of ice water, the young guy with glasses trying not to cry as he nurses his bloody arm, the Lady Gaga knock-off limping with help from her friend and cursing loudly, me, sitting by myself gently sobbing every time I try (unsucessfully) to close my jaw. Infomercials played on a loop. There's poor reception in hell. When I finally made it through to the other side, to the blindingly bright room with a bed, the wait seemed even longer. I was secluded, away from my waiting room friends who looked at me with such disdain, those hours sitting by myself I wished I had broken my whole hand or my whole face so I looked pitiful, so they could see that I wasn't intentionally taking advantage of Canada's medical coverage. After I while, I left the white room, looking at the chaos outside of it. Nurses, interns, doctors, racing back and forth, my friends sitting in beds with curtains, the illusion of privacy so dim as you heard their screams. At the end of the hall was another room. Twin doors wide open, a bed in the middle of the room, machines, wires, like a scene in a movie where it's so important for you to see everything. The lack of privacy stood out to me. Everything else was covered, curtains, doors, so your life, your drama never intersected with anyone elses.

His was there for everyone to see.

This man, maybe 50, skinny except for the beer belly of age, balding brown hair, a face like one you've seen but forgotten, laid in the bed. His eyes were closed, and his face was frozen like he was already dead, and if it weren't for his moans, his voice as he talked to the occasional orderly who'd go in, you'd think he was. His shirt was lifted a little, and I had this feeling... why was I given the luxury of privacy when I had a fractured finger and dislocated jaw and this man... he was dying.

Last night, sitting next to my best friend, gossiping as time passed, I didn't think about this man. Sure, I thought about my time before, and I thought how glad I was that I wasn't reliving it. I thought about the man who did the x-ray and the doctor too busy to look at me, but not the scene. Not that fleeting moment of mortality, not that pity, not that wonderment or confusion. Until I saw him again.

My friend and I followed a nurse into a small room after she had been looked at, to deal with the paperwork. It could only fit two people, so while my friend talked to the woman in charge I stood with my back against the door frame and I looked around. At the end of the hallway was twin doors, wide open for me to see, a bed in the center, machines and wires and a dying man with a face like you'd seen but forgotten.

And I just wanted to run. I wanted to leave as soon as possible, I wanted to look anywhere else, I wanted some explanation, I wanted it to make some sort of sense. I wanted to wake up. I wanted the end credits to roll.

They still haven't.