A Psalm, Unsung
Paul Radcliffe
‘For
he,being full of compassion,forgave their iniquity,and destroyed them not..’
PSALM 78, verse
38.
It
is well after
midnight. A man, late twenties, walks into the busy Emergency Department. The
decision is made. He should go to hospital. He has a problem. He deserves to be
helped. He is not there to be messed around. He is not there to be fobbed off. It
is about him. It always has been. The waiting room is crowded. Not his problem.
He prides himself on being straightforward. Up front. No beating around the
Priorities Bush for him. He will make himself clear. It is a matter of grave
urgency, as is everything else in his life. Others need to understand this, if
they’re capable. Which he doubts, frankly. Straight to the point, he approaches
the triage nurse. He needed to be clear. Crystal. Firm. Assertive. No nonsense.
“I need to see a senior doctor. Now.” His
voice is loud. Urgent, and justified in being so. It does not seem to be
happening. Are these people unhelpful or
just stupid? Do they not recognize urgency when it is right in front of them?
Obviously, he needed to make himself clear in a way they could understand. It
was, of course, a mediocre system at best and you get what you pay for. The
triage nurse looked up again. The problem, as she should be able to see, is a
huge absence of justice.
What caused this? What is causing this? Every time, in a world
of idiots, he had to explain. Slowly, as if to a child, the explanation was
forthcoming. Long gaps between the words.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” The words were
loud, and in the crowded room, a drunk’s eyelids flickered briefly. More
explanations needed. So often, he needed to explain. He chose his words carefully.
From past experience, he knew.
Even
the obvious
sometimes needs emphasis, especially when you are talking with those who, well,
lack the necessary capacity to understand. He was good-looking—she could see
that for herself, surely, certainly well-dressed—and he could assure her he was
talented. The triage nurse, still wholly unaware of why he was here, at
midnight in the Emergency Department, listened but did not speak. He sighed. There
are times when you just have to spell it out, make it clear to a dull-witted
world.
“I,”
he said, “don’t
have a girlfriend.” The nurse looked at him. “I don’t,” he continued, the tone
rising in a combination of amazement and disbelief. It wasn’t a problem with
looks, and he was talented. Many people had confirmed it. The reason—he was
surprised to have to explain it, let alone the need for a senior doctor. He
went on. If he didn’t have a girlfriend—given all the qualities, obvious or
not, that he possessed—then the glaring reason could only be a problem—a very
serious problem—with his mental health. The external can be a distorted
reflection of the internal. He needed a senior doctor now. The nurse explained
that there would be a wait. A long wait, she added, looking at the array of
drunks, the worried well, and the flagrant hypochondriacs, with far too much
spare time, that sat or slumped in rows of plastic chairs in front of her. Hearing
this, he could see that the world, once again, had failed to understand his
importance. It had been a mistake many had made. He did what he had always
done. He shouted his demand. His understandable need. His urgency.
“SENIOR! DOCTOR ! NOW!”
His
fist slammed
against the window in front of the nurse.
“NOW ! NOW ! NOW!” The fists slamming for
emphasis. The nurse flinched and leaned towards the microphone to her left.
“Security
to Waiting Room..” Her voice wavered
slightly. It had the desired effect as two men from hospital security rushed
into the waiting room. The drunks stirred a little, offering their observations
on the unfolding event in front of them, and the shouting continued. He had to
do this. Everybody was too stupid to understand. It had always been the same.
He
was told to
leave. Leave now. There were signs on the wall advising Zero Tolerance. The signs
listed the variations on aggression that
would not be tolerated. Security told him to leave or the police would be
called. He had had dealings with the police before. He could not expect
sympathy or understanding from them. He was a handsome, gifted and knowledgeable
man. No girlfriend. It needed to be addressed, here and now. Help was being
denied him. His frustration was obvious and justified. In the past, with those
who had failed to understand him, he had either issued threats or ultimatums, or
a combination of the two. It was clear to him that neither would work here. Nobody
wanted to help. It had always been this way. Given all his good qualities, his
looks and intellect, no woman seemed to have any interest in him. He would have
to find the answer himself. He walked toward the window that screened him from
the triage nurse. Security watched, ready. He fixed his gaze on the gap between
the nurse’s eyebrows. He did not blink. An old mannerism he had used to
intimidate. Many times.
“Thank you,” he said. Watched by security, the
drunks and the hypochondriacs, the doors to the waiting room slid open, and he
walked out into the waiting night. Whatever the reason, he would need to find
out for himself. And if women were not attracted to him, who should he ask? He
laughed.
Women. So obvious. Not doctors. What had he
been thinking?
He
sat in a
rainswept bus stop. The last bus pulled in. He smiled at the driver. He looked
down the bus. Two young women sat together. He was in no hurry to return home. He
would get off when they did. They would see his handsome face, sense his
intelligence and presence. He realized that he could not be the problem. The
mirror confirmed it. The bus slowed and stopped. He followed the women down a
darkened avenue. He needed answers. He reached into his pocket, lengthened by
some clever tailoring. He felt the solid
handle of the boning knife, the curved blade against his leg.
Help had been denied him. It always had. Nothing
had ever been his fault. He had tried. Fools did not understand him. The boning
knife would bring understanding. The women were not far in front of him, and
thought their togetherness brought safety. It would not. What would follow was
curved steel and questions. He would find the answers he had sought, and what
came with them—the blood and the muffled screams—was the responsibility of
those too stupid to understand. One day, he would patiently explain this
simplicity to many who listened. For now, his shadow and those of the women, merged.
And as the knife rose, the first of his
questions was asked, and if a reply came, no one would ever hear the answer.
