“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scares.” – Khalil Gibran

It’s New Years Eve. It’s party central at Liverpool Hospital (or shall I call it, ghost town?) Waiting rooms that are usually buzzing with impatient patients are silent. Many of the hallways are bare. I’m taken back by the apparent desertion of the pathology arena. Lucky me… no queue! We should be right in and right out. Wait, there’s no one at the counter. The lights are off. A small sign is stuck to the glassed counter: CLOSED. Closed? Closed?! You would think that all these clues together would have convinced me. But it can’t be. The receptionist said it would be open. I feel panicked. Should I bang on the window and yell? Will someone come? Breathe. As it turns out, pathology was in fact closed to outpatients for a whole 7 days! With this news, I walk upstairs to the Feto-Maternal Unit hoping that this is just a terrible mistake and I’ve been sent to the wrong place. The doors are sealed shut. Maybe it’s closed for lunch? I’ll just wait. Is this what we call denial? I pace up and down the hall. There’s got to be an explanation. Doesn’t this facility understand what’s at stake here. 

After an hour, I’m defeated. No ones coming. It was emphasised how important this blood test was and in 3 days I’ll return for my appointment with nothing. It’s a sign. Nothing is going to go right. This is just setting me up for what’s to come, but I can’t leave. I just stand there. Like an idiot. A standing, anxious, idiot…

A nurse walks past from the back entrance of the maternity unit. She can evidently see the defeat in my eyes and the fear on my face. She asks if she could be of help. In my quivering, uneven voice I explain the situation. Don’t cry, don’t cry. She invites us into the maternity ward to a congregation of  welcoming and reassuring nurses who take my paper work and try to work out what to do. You could still sense the excitement from Christmas, with tinsel draped over the counters, joyful chatter and the echoes of the newly born voicing throughout the ward. I flick through the newborn brochures on the wall trying to hide my angst. I fear if I don’t stop flicking and pretending to read I’ll burst out crying. My lips haven’t stopped quivering. My eyes better not follow. Husband has that look. It’s his first time back here. After many attempts on the phone, it’s suggested that we may need to go through emergency, but they warn it will take hours! Another suggested that we may need to go to another hospital, but wasn’t too sure, so we continue to wait, out of place, for a solution.

Eventually a gentle looking young doctor came sweeping through with stickers and vials with my name on them. He escorted us to the maternity assessment room explaining that there was no one here to do it, but that he will as “we’ve got to look after our own”. I profusely thank him. I imagine that he must had just finished up delivering a baby, and now he’s here helping poor little insignificant me. He joked about the obvious confusion and consoled us with his gracious professionalism. He filled the time with distracting small talk about his work, holidays and his apparent phobia and reaction to needles. He made us feel like we weren’t a burden, that we weren’t wasting his time, that we weren’t an inconvenience. You can truly find kindness in the most unexpected places. Who would have though that an understaffed, underfunded, overworked, slandered placed like Liverpool Public Hospital in south-west Sydney was where I’d discover my first sense of mercy for a long time.

We were at the hospital for 4 hours for a 4-minute blood test. I’m exhausted. I’m emotional. I’m ready to farewell the worst year of my life.

3 … 2 … 1 … Happy New Year and welcome 2013! I really do hope you hold greater things for us.

“Every experience, no matter how bad it seems, holds within it a blessing of some kind. The goal is to find it.” -Buddha

Welcome 2013