Could be worse

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Jenny looks at me through slightly soiled glasses. Her gaze is sympathetic, but also humble. “Oh, it could be worse,” she says. Viktor spent the second night in intensive care. 40 hours after he was officially admitted to the hospital, he is still waiting for his bed. He’s not the only one, Jenny explained that to me before. Hence the slight resignation in her eyes.

In America, the emergency room serves as a kind of reception center, performing not only medical, but also social and psychiatric functions. Because according to the law, everyone is treated here. Even poorly or not at all insured. The emergency room is humanity’s last bastion in an increasingly inhumane system – and is therefore hopelessly overwhelmed. Due to the pandemic, there is also a massive shortage of personnel. Jenny is also going to quit begging. She loves her job, which she has been doing for twenty years. But the pandemic has taken its toll. She is not only worried about pay cuts and additional administrative requirements, but that her work is no longer respected. “Do you remember how we were applauded then? It didn’t do us any good. But it was nice. But then things went awry, and in the end they took their frustrations out on us. It’s like we’ve caused a crisis.”

She controls IV Victor. I interfere with her, next to the bed there is almost no place for the rickety plastic chair on which I sit. It’s cold in intensive care, I brought a blanket and spread it on the bed. Instruments are buzzing, generators are rattling, alarms are constantly going off somewhere. Patients are crying, screaming, some kind of riot. In the corridor, patients are piled up on narrow trays covered with thin sheets, some do not even have a bed, but sit hunched over on chairs. The emergency room is designed for 33 patients, at the moment there are more than a hundred of them. 36 of them, like Viktor, are waiting for a bunk. Jenny draws the waist curtain between Victor and his bedmate.

“It could have been worse,” Jenny repeats. “He might be there.”

The next day, a bed is finally vacated in the ward. Notice, not a room, but a bed. It is located in the corridor, between the pantry and the computer station. Since there are toilets in every room, Victor has to go to the staff lounge through the hallway with the IV stand. Not ideal, there will always be someone nearby in case of an emergency. And the chair of the visitor has a soft seat. Again, the nurses are doing their best, but the frustration is obvious. Mo, who has taken over the night shift, says dryly: “Welcome to MS Parnassus! You obviously booked a luxurious cabin…” You have to laugh, MC Parnas is also not bad. Later, when Victor is sleeping, she sees me crying. I’m embarrassed but she doesn’t say anything and I hope she wouldn’t notice. But a little later, she puts a mug of chocolate pudding in front of me. “Always helps,” is all she says, and leaves before I can say thank you.

Source: Blick