Urgent Treatment Room 2

Alarmed at how I sound on the phone,
my friend drives three hours south just to check on me
and in doing so, manages to beat the ambulance.
It's 2 am when we finally arrive,
but the hospital never sleeps.
While the rest of the town snores peacefully,
A & E is a hive of activity.
And the noise: so much noise!
The TV is on but nobody is watching.
There's loud music blaring from somewhere,
alarms beeping in the background,
conversations between patients and their carers
and the buzz of healthcare professionals
going about their jobs.

Pretty quickly,
the medics decide on a plan of action
and move me to Urgent Treatment Room 2.
It's a relief; there are only three beds in here,
giving me time and space to de-stress
while nimble hands organise swift treatment.
It's much quieter
until the whirring of my nebuliser
draws my attention to its twin,
keepin my roommate alive.
Nobody chats as the two of us
fight to recover.

It's difficult to rest
on an inclined examination couch
but I curl up and try to sleep.
It's then that the cacophony fully kicks in.
Whether the noise has really just started
or I hadn't noticed it before,
it's not quiet in here at all!
I can still hear the crying of sick infants
coming from the waiting room;
staff passing through, running tests and observations.
Torrential rain thrums against the rooftop
and some idiot thought it a good idea
to give a harmonica to a child.
Then, Miss Broken Ankle is wheeled into the room
and on to the middle bed, between the two asthmatics.
Her entourage follows; an ever-changing parade of staff.
Sleep eludes me,
so I try my best to control what I can,
and concentrate on my breathing.
My roommate's in distress
and needs another round of treatments.

At some point, I drop off for 45 minutes.
When I awake, it's cooler and quieter;
the Broken Ankle has been moved to surgery
and somewhere nearby,
a child still plays a harmonica.