Postcards to America (7 page)

Dr. Hogan picked up the chicken leg and bit into the flesh. It tasted good. He took another bite and washed the food down with sparkling water. Reaching for the salt shaker, he spread salt over the remainder of the meat.

Five hours of his shift gone already. Where did the time go?

Catherine, his new “friend” and part-time lover, sat opposite him and munched a salad sandwich. Catherine, a first year student and the most direct person he had ever met, hadn’t even hinted that she fancied him. She merely sat opposite him one day in the canteen and simply told him outright. And how could he resist those hazel eyes and figure that seemed to fill out the uniform in all the right places.

‘It’s going to be another busy day?’ Hazel Eyes already knew the answer before she asked the question.

Henry’s mouthful of chicken prevented him speaking so he nodded his head in affirmation.

‘Don’t tire yourself out. We have a date tonight, remember. Take some sugar. It will give you energy.’ She laughed as she spoke. ‘Otherwise I will have to give you some other medicine to boost your performance.’

The day was typical. A waiting room full of people that never seemed to empty no matter how hard the staff worked. Children with cuts and bruises and broken limbs, elderly patients with breathing difficulties, foreigners from Asian countries with stomach pains and no translators, winos coming down and drug addicts going up.

The admittance procedure was simple. Each new patient presented himself or herself at the reception area upon arrival. A receptionist then took the person’s name, address and complaint. The patient then received a ticket bearing a number that placed them in a queue and they waited in the waiting room. When their turn came to be treated the patient proceeded to the casualty area proper where they were examined. That was the theory. In practice, theory and reality collided.

If an emergency occurred or if a person arrived in critical condition, they naturally jumped to the top of the queue, which led to long delays for the rest of the patients.

The problem could be traced to government policy. Smaller hospitals were closed and resources transferred to large regional hospitals. While “the big is great concept” could be applied to retail stores, many were of the opinion that this concept as applied to hospitals was seriously flawed. Critics pointed to road congestion. If a certain number of cars are heading towards a particular seaside resort and there are many access roads then the traffic on each road will be light. If there is only one access road to the resort then you will have congestion.

The problem is compounded by the perception that family doctors have assumed a filtering role for the hospitals. So patients are bypassing their doctors and going straight to casualty departments for treatment.

Chewing a mouthful of meat, Henry reflected on why he picked on medicine as a career. Did he want to be looked up to? Did he have a vocation to serve? It certainly wasn’t for the money. It would be years before he earned a decent salary. Perhaps there were many factors involved.

Perhaps he had just drifted into the profession. No tradition of medicine existed in the family history. Professors at Medical School called him a natural. In truth he did have a natural flair for the subject and sailed through the examinations.

Henry’s pager rang. No rest for the wicked, he thought. Catherine looked concerned.

With a chicken leg in his hand, Henry made for the nearest telephone. A red blood spot on his white overall went unnoticed.

‘Emergency,’ the voice at the other end of the line said. ‘Multiple cars involved in motorway pile up. Many injured: some seriously. Ambulances are at scene and will be arriving shortly. Make spaces in casualty for arrivals.’

Back at the table, Henry broke the news to Catherine. With a “see you later”, he picked up the last chicken leg and left for casualty.

As he hurried along the corridor, he pondered the question. ‘Where are we going to put the patients now waiting in casualty for treatment? Most hospitals now suffered from an acute shortage of beds. It wasn’t a case of no beds; rather a case of no staff to service the beds. Years of under investment and a lack of a clearly defined strategy meant that the whole hospital system bordered on the brink of chaos. The area around casualty resembled a small war zone. Trolleys lined both sides of the corridors. People could spend two days on a trolley before receiving a hospital bed. Or, in some cases no bed would be available and they would be sent home to try their luck another day.

Unable to find a bin, Henry placed the uneaten portion of the chicken leg in his pocket.

Preoccupied and hurrying along the corridor, Henry turned a corner and nearly bumped into Danny. The ex-cleric wore a resigned look on his face. A look that said, take me - I am ready.

‘Everything OK?’ asked Henry, noting the sign above the door from which Danny emerged.

‘Er...Yes…Yes.’ The voice contained a slight tremor.

‘We have an emergency. I must go. I will talk to you later. Give me a ring.’ Henry wanted to question his friend as to the nature of his visit to “that department” but his services were urgently required elsewhere. The two men exchanged goodbyes.

As Henry passed a trolley, a man slightly intoxicated and with what appeared to be a broken collarbone shouted, ‘Hey, doctor, will I be home for my wife’s birthday next month?’

Over in the corner adjacent to a drink vending machine two men were arguing, oblivious to the security cameras. One of the men gave the vending machine a violent kick. As Henry watched, the automatic doors that led into the room opened and two security guards entered. At the sight of the security guards the two men quietened down and returned to their seats. Just before they sat, the vending machine gave a loud bang. A can of soft drink came down the tube and hit the floor, quickly followed by another and then another. The machine continued to spew out cans in all directions until it emptied. With a shout and a mad scramble, the walking injured pounced on the free cans. A man with broken toes, a boy with a patch over one eye, a wife suffering from bruised ribs following a beating from her husband of one week, a teacher who went to the toilet every ten minutes, an unmarried mother rolling a crying baby in a pram, and a young man dressed in a robe who walked up and down repeating a mantra, all ended up in a pile of bodies as they fought for a free can of soft drink. Recognising that retreat is the better part of valour, the two security guards exited the waiting room.

In casualty, doctors were arriving having been alerted to the emergency. The first priority was obvious: clear the corridors of trolleys. ‘Easier said than done,’ remarked Henry to another doctor. ‘Where are we going to put the patients that are on the trolleys? We cannot send them home; they need hospitalisation.’

Is there any large space we can put them temporarily, Henry thought? The hospital chapel would not do; too small. The canteen would do but if he remembered correctly, the tables were screwed to the floor. That would leave only one other option… The other doctors reluctantly agreed with his suggestion and informed the hospital authorities.

All non-essential personnel were marshalled and the patients on trolleys were pushed and pulled to the enclosed car park. The patients protested vehemently at being moved out instead of being moved in. No doubt at this very minute their relatives would be ringing the newspapers protesting.

Then the crash victims started arriving. One man and one young woman were DOA. Three people were suffering from severe head injuries and after initial treatment were sent by helicopter to a specialist hospital dealing in head injuries. A dozen others suffered various broken limbs that needed to be placed in casts and two victims were treated for severe shock.

As Henry finished dealing with the last of the crash victims Catherine entered the casualty and beckoned to him. Henry asked another doctor to take over from him and approached her. She seemed upset.

‘There is a man in the waiting room causing trouble. I know you are busy. Can you spare a minute…?’

Henry considered for a minute. They were nearly finished here for now. He walked to the sink, washed his hands, and then followed Catherine to the waiting room.

‘That’s him there,’ Catherine said. ‘He says he is an important politician.’ She pointed to a man with a pin-stripe suit and a beer belly.

At the sight of Henry, “Beer Belly” stepped forward and extended his hand. Henry shook the proffered hand. The hand felt moist.

“Beer Belly” placed his hand around Henry’s shoulder as if they were old pals and whispered, ‘Doctor, I know that you are busy but could you… could you have a quick look at my son? I have an important meeting to attend.’

Henry looked at the young boy standing beside his father. A lollipop stuck out from the corner of his mouth and his nose needed cleaning. A white bandage wrapped around the hand signalled the location of his injury.

Henry felt his temperature rise. A waiting room filled with patients. People parked on trolleys in the car park awaiting admission and this politician trying to jump the queue. Responsibility for the mess had to stop someplace and in Henry’s mind this politician represented all politicians. With an effort, Henry kept his composure.

‘A fine boy,’ Henry said and meant it.

‘Doctor! Doctor! “Beer Belly” spoke loudly so that he would be overheard.

Henry knelt down to the young boy’s level. Carefully he removed the bandage from the boy’s hand. The wound did not seem to be deep. A good cleaning, two stitches and tetanus shot would suffice.

‘A fine boy that needs two stitches and tetanus shot.’ Henry informed “Beer Belly”.

‘Well…’ “Beer Belly” let the word hang.

‘A fine boy that needs two stitches and tetanus shot and who is going to wait his turn.’

“Beer Belly’s” face collapsed. For a moment, Henry thought the politician near to exploding. Veins stood out in his neck and his face went crimson.

‘We have an emergency in casualty. We have patients on trolleys parked in the car park and we have a full waiting room. As a politician, you should be setting an example to the public at large. You may not be personally responsible for this mess but if you have to wait your turn, you may realise what the populace has to live or die with. Now I presume you have a ticket?’ Henry surprised himself at the calmness of his own voice.

“Beer Belly” looked shocked. His mouth opened and shut in silent rhythm

Henry pointed to the large electronic sign that displayed the number 47.

‘Get a ticket and wait your turn. There are 47 people in front of you so be prepared for a long wait.’

A look of admiration graced Catherine’s face as Henry left the waiting room and returned to casualty.

With the emergency over in casualty the patients parked on trolleys in the car park were returned to the corridors and business resumed as normal.

God, he felt tired. He needed to lie down for an hour or two. Any bed would do. He called Catherine.

‘I’m going to find a bed in one of the closed wards,’ he heard himself say as he left casualty.

An hour later Catherine found him stretched out on a bed in a ward closed to the public because of financial cutbacks. His snores reverberated off the bare walls. Catherine looked down at her sleeping lover. With a glance around to check if they were alone she undid the buttons on his white coat and played with his “stethoscope” for a while before finally throwing a blanket over him and closing the door behind her.

The large sign over the door proclaimed: Computer Sales and Repairs: Cheap Internet rates available.

“Corner” pushed the door open and stepped inside. Looking around he took in the bank of computers lined along one wall of the premises. A mix of male and female surfers occupied half of the computer places.

“Corner” had decided to try this new mode of communication after his talk with Liam. After a long and illustrious history, the age of the postcard was ending. You could now send a message to a sheriff in Deadwood in the blink of an eye; or so he believed.

‘Can I help you, friend?’ The eager young man with pimples on his face and tattoos adorning both arms asked when “Corner” approached the counter.

‘I’d like to send emails to America,’ answered “Corner”.

‘No problem. That’s what we are here for.’ The young man smiled.

‘Pick any of the vacant computers.’

“Corner” looked at the blank monitors, then back at the smiling assistant. ‘I have no experience of the Internet; I’m used to sending postcards. Can you show me how to send emails?’

With no other customers looking for assistance, the young man decided to help “Corner”. He also wanted to show off his skills to this stranger.

Guiding “Corner” to a swivel – chair in front of a monitor, the young man leant over the newcomer’s shoulder and started up the computer.

‘The first thing we have to do is to set up a user account for you,’ advised the young man.

‘What’s that?’ replied “Corner”.

‘It’s an account that gives you a unique name. It allows you to send and receive messages to any place in the world.

‘Even the next town?’

‘Even as far the next town.’

The young man looks from the monitor to “Corner”. What have we here…?

‘No wonder the Red Indians stand no chance.’

At the mention of “Red Indians”, the young man looks around to make sure that the two of them were not alone.

‘You have to answer a few simple questions about yourself before you choose a user name.’ The youth went through a list of questions and in each case, “Corner” gave him the first answer that popped into his head.

‘Now, what name do you want to use? All the familiar names will be long since gone. Try something different.’

“Corner” thought for a few minutes before replying. ‘What about “Nighthawk”? It has a western flavour about it.’

The youth tried the name and the system accepted it.

‘Now you need a password. Every time you log on, the system will prompt you to enter your password. The youth pointed to a box on the screen and said, ‘Enter your password here.’

Again “Corner” spent a few minutes before typing “Pueblo”.

With the account set up, the assistant showed “Corner” how to open an email application and type an email.

‘When you have typed your email,’ he explained patiently, ‘just click on the send button and your email would be sent to whatever addresses you type in the address box. They will receive your message in seconds if their computer is on at that time.’ ‘Marvelous,’ replied “Corner”.

‘As a matter of interest,’ asked the youth, wondering if he should venture down this particular path, ‘do you have anybody to send emails to?’

‘No. Perhaps you could help me there…?’ “Corner” gave the youth a stare.

‘What are your interests?’ asked the tattooed youth.

‘I’m interested in the “Wild West”.

Oh! That explains the “Red Indians”, thinks the youth, feeling a lot more comfortable with the stranger.

So he showed “Corner” how to use a search engine. ‘Just type in a word and click on the button,’ he explained, ‘and it will give you a list of sites. Then type in another word or words to narrow the search still further.’

‘Have you got the hang of it?’ asked the assistant as he left “Corner’s” side to serve a new customer.

‘Nearly,’ answered “Corner”.

After typing words into the search engine for thirty minutes, “Corner” finally found a site that showed promise. He clicked a button and a site showing the flag of the Confederate States of America appeared on the monitor. Overwritten on the flag “Corner” could see the address of the site:
www.friendsoftheconfederacy.com

‘I’ll send them an email to cheer them up. Yes, that’s what I will do. I will send them a few words of encouragement.’

When “Corner” finished typing, he looked at his few carefully chosen words. “
Don’t give up hope: All is not lost. From a friend”.
Satisfied with the message, “Corner” clicked the “send” button.

After a further period of searching, “Corner” found another site that showed promise so he clicked on:
www.siouxreservation.com
.

They definitely need help, “Corner” thought. Therefore, he typed out a short warning: “
Beware, General Custer is on your trail. From a friend”.
As on the previous occasion he pressed the “send” button.

That’s enough messages for one-day, thinks “Corner” shutting down the computer and approaching the youthful assistant.

‘How much do I owe you?’ he asked.

‘That will be two Euro.’

“Corner” handed the money over and said, ‘Thanks for your help. I think I’ve mastered the Internet now. It’s a great means of communicating.’

‘Did you send many emails?’ the youth asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

‘Yes I did,’ “Corner” replied. ‘But…’

The youth waited as “Corner” turned towards the door and then looked back.

‘ But I got no replies. They must have all been out.’

*

A day later “Corner” returned to see if his emails had been answered. The friendly assistant showed him how to open his inbox. There were two messages there for him. He read the first message, which was from friendsoftheconfederacy.com.

‘Thanks for your message of support but I have to tell you that Savannah was burnt last night.’

The second message “Corner” received was from siouxreservation.com. Eagerly he read the message.

‘Your warning was timely. We wiped out the “long knives” and the “short knives” too. We left one horse escape. We are not partial to horsemeat – we leave that to the French.

In appreciation for your help we are offering you the chance to purchase at a special discount hair taken from the scalp of the “long knives”. For the low, low price of nine dollars and ninety-five cents including all federal taxes, we will send you twenty-five strands of the white man’s hair.’

Shortly afterwards “Corner” left the caf� to withdraw nine dollars and ninety-five cents from his account.

*