Public hospital

 

Public hospital 

 

I’m struggling to breathe, begging the air to fill my lungs, I take a deep breath…it doesn’t work…I open the room window…I pace back and forth, feeling like my heart might stop at any moment. I went up to the roof, taking deep breaths, my mind is also taking in deep thoughts…death…I don’t want to go now, at least not like this.

After half an hour, I find myself at Sidi Hssain Hospital. I approach the reception desk:

-  Please, I need to see a general practitioner!

He replies in a cold tone:

- What’s wrong?

-  I’m having trouble breathing.

He hands me a paper written in French, I look around, Everyone in the waiting area is Moroccan, I’m Moroccan, Why did he give me a paper in French? Why are most administrative papers in French? That’s doesn’t matter right now.

A metal door separates the waiting room from the doctor’s office. Two people are sitting in the waiting room, and about ten people are standing chaotically in front of the doctor’s office. Should I sit here or stand there? I decide to do the right thing and sit down to wait for my turn.

People enter in random order. The boldest…the most aggressive, goes in first. I’ll die sitting in these chairs, and my turn will never come. I try to go in, but a security guard stops me. I didn’t even notice him. He’s wearing casual clothes…not suitable for a public hospital security guard, and he doesn’t have an ID badge. I thought he was just another visitor.

He says: Stand here. I stand in confusion, randomly as well.

The door to the doctor’s office is open, and people are gathered around it. Everyone can see and hear what the patient and the doctor are saying, like they’re watching a show. Someone entered and started chatting with the security guard. They seem to be friends. The guard let him in before everyone else, without considering the patients who have been waiting for hours…my patience is running out…my breath is running out…I look around and wonder: Why are things like this? What are we missing to provide better public services? I thought about shouting at the guard, the doctor, and everyone responsible here…A dangerous anger took over me…I walked out, abandoning my treatment and my condition. I sat on a bench outside the hospital, lit a cigarette, and tears of frustration streamed down my face.

I went to my friend’s house, knocking on his door at 2am:

- Hey! Is everything okay?

- I can’t breathe…the hospital…shit...        

I pace back and forth in his house, saying incomprehensible things.

- Calm down…give me the cigarette, and let me understand you.

- No…I want to smoke…I want to breathe…

We went out onto the street, looking for a taxi. My breathing slowing down even more, moments later, I found myself in an ambulance…they took me to the emergency room and placed an oxygen mask on my nose. A doctor asked me:

- Do you feel better!

- No, there’s something in my throat blocking the oxygen from entering my lungs!

-  I’m sorry, there’s nothing else I can do.

- How can you not do anything? You’re a doctor, you have to do something!

- You need to go to Boukafr Hospital, where the respiratory specialist is.

- Will we find her now?

- No, they start working at 9am.

- But I can’t breathe now, I can’t wait until 9.

-  I’m sorry, there’s nothing else I can do.

I took off the oxygen mask and walked out of the hospital, hopeless. What’s the point of this hospital and this doctor if they can’t be a refuge for patients in danger…I walked in the street without any destination…tears streaming down my face, a cigarette in my hand. My friend shouted: You shouldn’t be smoking now! My only medicine at that moment was cigarettes and prayers for life to keep me alive until morning.

9am at Boukafr Hospital, a metal gate, a courtyard with a big tree in the center, and small offices around the building, about fifty people were gathered chaotically around those offices, again without any system or order, I asked someone:

- Excuse me, I need to see the respiratory specialist!

- She’s sick, she won’t be coming today.

I didn’t expect much from another public hospital. I sat on a bench, searching in my phone for private clinics specializing in respiratory issues, Dr. Haji, I went to his clinic, a smiling receptionist greeted me, I explained my situation, and she gave me a number for the appointment. The clinic was clean, the waiting rooms air-conditioned, and the atmosphere helping to ease the stress of the patients.

My turn came, I entered the doctor’s office, which was divided into two rooms: one as an office and the other equipped with various medical devices. I lay on a bed as he examined my throat and chest with a device, and we did some vocal and breathing tests, then, we moved to his office.

He told me I had an inflammation in the left side of my throat and some bacteria, and that there was no danger to worry about, I would be fine after using some medications.

A person does not feel a sense of belonging to home when they are denied even their most basic rights. They lose their connection to it and seek any opportunity to leave for another home, striving for a better life, a life in which they feel human.

-Unes Rakhsiss

-Translated by: Nada Farsi