an emergency room, pt 1.

A few months ago: I am bringing a relative of mine to the emergency room. I am exhausted. I've already spent three hours with her at a clinic earlier, where they'd told us nothing was wrong with her (good work, doc). Lunch had been two granola bars. Dinner was cold chicken and half a raw onion.

Emergency rooms today are basically rows of beds separated by thin curtains draped from the ceiling. The bed next to ours is unoccupied, so I draw back the separating curtain and sit on the edge, looking at the woman I have brought here. Her eyelids are half closed, her eyes rolled back. She could be sleeping, could just be unresponsive.

There is an old man in the bed behind us. Bed 3, room 140. I have no idea what his name might be. He has not been quiet for a moment since we arrived. Why won't you help me, he is saying now. His voice is tinged with either pain or frustration. A tired-looking resident fixes his nametag -- Louis, it says in neat black print -- and gets up to attend to him.

I want to sit up, says the old man in Bed 3. I can see his mottled feet peeking out past the edge of the curtain. Have you called my cousin yet? Louis catches me watching this sad scene and smiles wanly at me. Sir, you can't sit up any more, Louis explains. This is the highest the bed will go.

Where did the nurse go, asks the man in Bed 3. I've turned back around now, facing my relative's bed. She was supposed to call my cousin. His name is Robert Johns. He lives in Pasadena. He is supposed to come and get me. Pasadena is more than two hours drive away, I think to myself. Louis is not making eye contact with either of us.

I remember something a grinning young tour guide told me a few months ago, making fun of the a guidebook we'd brought with us. Never trust a man with two Christian names.

We're doing our best, Louis says to the old man, walking past me. He turns back to the old man. The nurse will be back soon, he says reassuringly. It is late now, around one in the morning.