Hospital

It's only in hospitals, I think, that you can truly understand the terrifying range of disasters, large and small, that can befall the human body and mind. And it's in hospitals that you can begin to comprehend the kindness that we are capable of.

As I type this, I'm in a hospital waiting room. For nothing serious, thank goodness - Little 'Un broke his little finger a few weeks ago and this is just a check up. Sitting opposite me is a young man - late 20s/early 30s. He has a bandage on his wrist but he has more serious challenges than that: he repeats himself incessantly, becomes easily agitated and aggressive, finds things hard to understand. The girl sitting next to him looks younger - sister, lover, friend, carer? - and I watched her, watching him.

I'm a fairly articulate guy but I lack the words to express the emotion I saw on her face and in her eyes. Some combination of pain, patience, love, sadness, weariness and something else, something stronger than all those other emotions put together. It was deeply moving; I know I'm a bit of a drama queen at the best of times and especially now, when I'm feeling generally a bit fragile but even I was surprised to find tears in my eyes.

Perhaps it was projection, or empathy, or a realisation that, deep down, I doubt I could cope with a situation like that: whatever it was, it was a touching moment. They left for their appointment before we did and I'll never see either of them again. Without wishing to be melodramatic, I don't think I'll ever forget them, though.