The place is crowded, loud and obscenely bright. I swear it is one level off interrogation bright. How are all of these people so alert? Trolleys and annoying, repetitive beeping sounds surround us. The atmosphere is strained and everyone seems rushed and in a hurry. The only thing separating us from the harsh, pained coughing beside us is a flimsy curtain. My eyes are sore with fatigue and my temperature is off, my body refusing to be awake at 3am. My mother rocks back and forth on the hospital bed, somewhat incoherent on and off with the pain. Pancreatitis strikes again. This time the pain was unbearable, she needed IV fluids and serious pain relief, not to mention anti-sickness medication. The entire situation was bleak. It was the dead of winter. The roads were icy and dangerous. We drove here, in somewhat of a panic that forced me to switch my brain on. Most people are in warm, cosy beds dreaming right now, listening to the harsh winds outside their windows. I’m in tracksuit bottoms, a pj top and duffel coat. Please kill me. My dad is keeping his cool, as usual. He doesn’t even look tired. Sometimes I wonder where is natural ability to be ready for situations like this comes from. I hate how perky he is. I’m irritable and exhausted. Despite my bad mood, I know how easily stressful situations can escalate. In an attempt to lighten the mood, seeing how my mother is gradually more alert and chirpier I decide to take some photos to remember the night. Fourteen selfies, several photos (some with medical staff) and six, unrepeatable swear words later (all from my mother) the three of us are in stitches of laughter.
I don’t even remember what happened after that really, I just know it was funny and we laughed a lot.
Laughter is the best medicine.
‘If Heaven exists, to know that there’s laughter, that would be a great thing.’ -Robin Williams