Chapter 10
The driver is a maniac. I’m not complaining though. Not today. I’m thankful for this ambulance driver who drives like an escaped convict being chased by sector guards. The faster he drives, the better Nanny’s chances are. The only thing that worries me is her wellbeing. I thought her stretcher would break free from its mounts a few times with the rapid jolts of the moving van. I’m jerked back and forth, and I notice my hands trembling as I put on the seatbelt to steady myself. The ambulance is wired with high-tech radios, dashboard computers and navigation systems, most of which the EMT fiddles as we weave in and out of traffic at top speed.
Deafening sirens and flashing red lights part crowds of cars on the highway as we race to our destination. Screeching tires wildly barrel through the streets with the aim of saving Nanny’s life. The squealing ambulance echoes throughout the roadway.
We approach the large compound I recognize as Delmore County hospital. I visited Natasha here once when she broke her arm. The paramedics quickly stop the truck close to the emergency entrance and take her out. We rush through the automatic glass doors that lead to the hospital corridor. The wheels of the stretcher and my pounding heartbeat are the only things audible to me.
"Ma’am, you can’t accompany them inside." One of the heavyset nurses stops me in a soft but commanding tone. My heart is in my throat as the stretcher vanishes from my sight, through the left hall.
"She’s my grandmother." I choke out in tears. My mind floods with a sequence of unfavorable results, each one with Nanny missing from my life. I never realized how much I love her until now.
"Come this way." she says in a more soothing voice while I follow her. It seems that my anguish placated her enough to be empathetic.
She directs me to reception to provide the necessary information so that they can treat Nanny. Honestly I don’t know very much except that Nanny’s real name is Ruby Hartland. She is seventy - three years old although there is a lot of mystery surrounding her actual birth-paper. Come to think of it, all her personal documents for that matter.
“Does your grandmother have health insurance?” I’m dazed but I produce my health insurance card from my wallet. It’s one of the perks of working for my company. There’s an amazing group health plan.
She motioned for me to have a seat in the waiting room.
With my hands on my tear-filled face I sit on one of the hard metal chairs. There are a few other people there. I didn’t recognize any of them. Usually I would be too self-conscious to show emotion in public but today I don’t mind in the least. I feel a tightness in my chest my jaw is locked. All I taste is a mixture of bitterness and my own salty tears. Grief courses through me with every breath I take, reaching to even greater heights with my long intakes of air. All pretense of quiet coping is lost and I sink back on the chair not caring about the state of my untidy clothes and hair.
I see a few of the other members of the temple being escorted into the waiting room with distressed faces. It’s then I try to get a hold of myself. I’m supposed to be strong. I wipe my tears and sit up.
The hospital waiting room is stuffy and the air has an undertone of bleach. Most likely from a mess that was just made and had to be cleaned. I twist uncomfortably in my chair and look around. The light orange walls are scraped and covered with graffiti. One of them said ‘God help us all’. It just about sums up the way I feel. There is a television set in the top left corner, inside of metal bars, along with heavy dust and tangled cobweb. There are more paramedics wheeling in patients on stretchers and I notice a child in a neck brace, screaming in the corridors as the doctors come running. Its official, I hate hospitals.
I don’t remember Nanny ever being sick in the twenty-three years I have known her. She never went for as much as a check-up.
“Modern medicine is poison,” she would say.
She always relied on her herbs.
I disagree with her a bit on that. How could modern medicine be a poison with all its sophistication? By obtaining a single blood sample, a health-care professional could find out the medical history of a patient as well as their allergies and overall level of health. I know that Nanny is in good hands. If there is any place that could save her, it would be this one. I just have to give them time to do their job.
Members of my sumudral have been through a lot today and it shows. The usually prim and proper women in their freshly pressed Sunday bests, now stand together looking sullen and disheveled.
They push in Sister Margret in a wheel chair. She is not making a scene like before. Now she cries softly as a group of older women do their best to console her. One of her three daughters survived the attack but is in critical condition. A group of women are in an argument with the receptionist about payment that should be made for Margret’s daughter before performing the surgery she desperately needs to survive.
It’s difficult for a mungu to be involved in an argument without being seen as aggressive and carted off for a PIT injection. This group of women who obviously have concerns about the child are not doing a very good job. Shouting would only get them in trouble.
“You people are evil! How could you do this?” Sister Beth is furious.
Her beautiful green dress is decorated with black soot from the fire.
“Ma’am I need you to calm down.” The receptionist looks tired and irritated.
“A God damn child is about to die! Are you really telling me to calm down right now?”
“I didn’t draft the company policy, I only-”
“Follow this hospital’s draconian laws? Don’t you have a heart?”
“Now I’ve told you to calm down. Don’t make me do this.” The receptionist picks up the receiver on a large black switchboard phone.”
“Wait, wait wait…” I say. “Can my insurance cover close relatives?”
“I’m not sure; let me see your card again?”
I pass the card as she hangs up the phone. She types my card number on the keyboard to pull up the information.
“Says here any family member including disabled relatives.”
“Well that four year old is my third cousin. You can proceed with the surgery.” It wasn’t a total lie. I had a few relatives in Margret’s family from my father’s side. If there’s a chance that she could be covered I have to take it.
Technically the receptionist is still breaking protocol because she is supposed to verify the actual names of patients.
The women looked on hopefully as the receptionist gives confirmation for the surgery. I would never understand how a group of health-care professionals could sit by and watch another person die on account of company policy. I think of how fortunate I am to have health insurance. There are many people who are unable to afford it and end up in Margret’s position. In fact if it weren’t for my job at MUST Inc., I would be in that very same position. We live in a cruel world.
Margret is no longer in a daze. She no doubt witnessed the scenario that just took place concerning her daughter’s surgery, because she is staring straight at me. Our eyes connect and she signals for me to come to her.
I obey stooping slightly so I can hear what she has to say.
“I saw it you know. I thought it was a dream but I saw it. And I know you saw it too.”
The Rejected - Episode 1 of 9 (Urban Fantasy Dystopian Serial) Page 12