Glimmers from a hospital corridor

This week, my dad ended up being rushed to hospital for the third time in four months.

This time, I was with him when the emergency happened and I was the one who called the ambulance.

The next few days - the last few days - have been a sleep-deprived haze of hospital scenes, beginning with almost 24 hours of my dad lying on a trolley in a crowded corridor at Accident & Emergency due to the chronic lack of funding to our Health Service leading to a chronic lack of resources and hospital beds.

Seeing a loved one - and so many other people’s loved ones - languishing in such a vulnerable state is too heartbreaking and infuriating for me to dwell on, so I’m going to dwell instead on the moments of beauty I’ve managed to find this week in the midst of all the fear and pain.

I’m going to focus on my glimmers of gratitude.

First of all, there was the wonderful ambulance crew, who took such great care of my dad at the scene of his collapse and got us safely to the hospital.

Then there was the super friendly and efficient doctor, who reassured me that they were going to give my dad a CT scan within twenty minutes.

When we were still waiting in the corridor two hours later I was grateful for the man whose mum was on a trolley next to my dad’s for giving me his chair so I could sit down.

I was so touched by this act of kindness that when I saw a woman close to tears sitting by the trolley on the other side, I asked if I could get her anything.

She shook her head but went on to tell me how she’d been waiting there with her elderly mum, who’d had a really bad fall, since one o’clock in the morning. They’d been waiting there in the corridor for over twelve hours with no treatment at all. It was heartbreaking but I felt a glimmer of gratitude for this moment of warmth and connection with a total stranger.

I was then hugely grateful when, after a six hour wait, my dad was finally taken for his scan, by a really kind and smiley doctor.

I was even more grateful when my sister arrived to join us afterwards - back on the corridor as there were still no available beds on the wards.

And I’m so grateful for all of my siblings - I have two sisters and a brother - who were so supportive on our WhatsApp group chat all day, allowing me a safe and private space to have a mini meltdown as the hours dragged past on that corridor!

My dad was finally admitted to a ward the following morning and he’s received wonderful care ever since.

When he first got to the ward there was an elderly man in the bed next to his who I could hear speaking in what sounded like an Eastern European language to his daughter.

After a while this man was helped into a wheelchair and as his daughter pushed him past my dad’s bed, I realised that they were speaking in Ukrainian.

I leapt up and followed them out and tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Excuse me, are you from Ukraine?’ I asked and she nodded.

‘Dobryi den!’ I replied (Ukrainian for ‘good day’) and her face instantly lit up. Her father was over the moon, beaming at me from his wheelchair.

‘Yak spravy?’ I asked him (meaning ‘how are you?’) and he began speaking to me animatedly in Ukrainian.

‘He is blessing you,’ his daughter explained, before asking me how I knew Ukrainian.

I told her about my son working for an aid organisation over there and how he’d recently married a woman from Lviv.

She told me that they were from Kyiv and all the while her lovely dad beamed up at us from his wheelchair, chuckling away to himself that they should have bumped into a Brit speaking pidgin Ukrainian to them in a London hospital.

As we said our goodbyes I told her that I hoped the war would end soon so that they could go back home and instantly her eyes filled with tears.

As soon as I saw her obvious emotion I got choked up too as I thought back to my summer in Lviv and the bravery, loss and pain I witnessed in the Ukrainian people.

She flung her arms around me and we hugged each other tight. Two complete strangers, meeting briefly on a hospital ward because of our fathers, yet able to share the deepest of heartfelt bonds.

I feel as if this week has knocked me to my knees.

Everything that felt so important to me last week - the work plans and the life goals and the travel dreams - no longer seem to matter, for now at least.

My world and my focus has honed in on what matters the most. On who matters the most.

me and my dad - we may have swapped drinks :)

My dad is 85 and his once strong body is weakening by the day.

If you’ve read my novel The Storyteller of Auschwitz you might know that my dad was the inspiration for the character of Solly and many of the nuggets of wisdom Solly shares with Etty in the book are things my dad has shared with me over the years.

The night before he collapsed, as we ate dinner, my dad reminded me of a quote he once heard - and loves - from a Rabbi…

“Those who have forgotten how to laugh have turned their backs on God.”

This quote has been echoing in my mind all week, as I’ve tried to bring a smile to my dad’s face in the hardest of circumstances.

There’s a sadness woven through my days now, a sense that tears are never far away, and my heart feels raw. 

But my heart has never felt so open either - open to all of the good in people and love in the world.

Until next week, here’s to connections and kindness and holding our loved ones tight. And to finding glimmers of gratitude, even in the dark.

Siobhan