If you're not bleeding to death, you have to stand in line at the reception window and check into the Emergency Room at Sha'arei Tsedeq Hospital. The entrance is bright, high-ceilinged, and well-maintained. A wall on the left lists the major donors and displays a large photograph of Dr. David Applebaum, who was killed in a terrorist suicide bombing in 2003.
At first it wasn't clear where we had to go, but to our right we saw a short line in front of plate glass partitions, and two women sat behind the glass, asked people questions, and filled out forms. We joined the short line, which advanced fast enough, and we moved on to the waiting room, step two.
That room was somewhat crowded and a bit dark. Quite a few of the people in the room were Arabs, attending the relatives they had brought to the emergency room. We sat and waited there for a long time, until we were called for triage, step three.
While we were waiting for triage, we saw a few patients wheeled in from ambulances, and some of the people waiting for admission were in terrible shape, suffering and frightened. Luckily, we were able to be calm and wait stoically. My wife was not in pain.
In the triage room, a nurse went through all the usual questions, took a blood sample, put a needle in my wife's arm, and sent us on to the emergency room itself, a huge space with curtained examination rooms down the sides.
We were told to wait in front of room number eight. By then I lost track of time, drifting in and out of a doze. We had arrived at the hospital at 11:30 or so, and it wasn't till after 2 in the morning when a doctor finally examined my wife.
The major psychological difficulty, after the fear and pain, is uncertainty: how long will you have to wait? what will be the outcome? what's the procedure? The people who work in the emergency room know just what to do and where to go. The patients are lost.
Hospitals impress and depress me. The emergency room was clean - a young Arab man constantly and efficiently swept and mopped, moving from place to place and restoring order and spraying against germs - and there was no shortage of equipment. A huge amount of money has been invested in equipping and maintaining that emergency room, and you have to feel grateful to the philanthropists who gave so generously - though part of me thinks that hospitals should be equipped only by the state and not be dependent on donations.
But hospitals also depress me because just looking at the directory reminds me of how many systems in my body might break down and need attention: bronchoscopy, medical genetics, neurological diagnosis, allergy and imunology, and so on. In case one needs reminding, hospitals
I admire medical professionals and know that I could never be one. I can't imagine sticking needles into people, cutting them open with scalpels, dealing with burns and wounds, treating cancer and degenerative diseases that leave no hope for the patient. How is it that some people know they can do that kind of thing, and others know they can't at all?
At first it wasn't clear where we had to go, but to our right we saw a short line in front of plate glass partitions, and two women sat behind the glass, asked people questions, and filled out forms. We joined the short line, which advanced fast enough, and we moved on to the waiting room, step two.
That room was somewhat crowded and a bit dark. Quite a few of the people in the room were Arabs, attending the relatives they had brought to the emergency room. We sat and waited there for a long time, until we were called for triage, step three.
While we were waiting for triage, we saw a few patients wheeled in from ambulances, and some of the people waiting for admission were in terrible shape, suffering and frightened. Luckily, we were able to be calm and wait stoically. My wife was not in pain.
In the triage room, a nurse went through all the usual questions, took a blood sample, put a needle in my wife's arm, and sent us on to the emergency room itself, a huge space with curtained examination rooms down the sides.
We were told to wait in front of room number eight. By then I lost track of time, drifting in and out of a doze. We had arrived at the hospital at 11:30 or so, and it wasn't till after 2 in the morning when a doctor finally examined my wife.
The major psychological difficulty, after the fear and pain, is uncertainty: how long will you have to wait? what will be the outcome? what's the procedure? The people who work in the emergency room know just what to do and where to go. The patients are lost.
Hospitals impress and depress me. The emergency room was clean - a young Arab man constantly and efficiently swept and mopped, moving from place to place and restoring order and spraying against germs - and there was no shortage of equipment. A huge amount of money has been invested in equipping and maintaining that emergency room, and you have to feel grateful to the philanthropists who gave so generously - though part of me thinks that hospitals should be equipped only by the state and not be dependent on donations.
But hospitals also depress me because just looking at the directory reminds me of how many systems in my body might break down and need attention: bronchoscopy, medical genetics, neurological diagnosis, allergy and imunology, and so on. In case one needs reminding, hospitals
I admire medical professionals and know that I could never be one. I can't imagine sticking needles into people, cutting them open with scalpels, dealing with burns and wounds, treating cancer and degenerative diseases that leave no hope for the patient. How is it that some people know they can do that kind of thing, and others know they can't at all?
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