ABSTRACT
I am writing from hospital, where I have accompanied a family member onto an assessment ward. We are on the eighth floor, waiting. Being patient in the course of one of us becoming a patient. Mercifully, there is the view from the expansive windows out over the city and to the islands in the gulf. The green of the grass and blue of the sea and sky speak in colors of a world beyond, the world of another day, a tomorrow when all will be well. The small pieces of artwork are reminders of other worlds too, miniature suggestions of imagined spaces outside these grey-green walls and floors, stark white sheets and a clock running forty minutes late. Drawers by the bedside table have faded labels that leave one guessing. One says ‘vomit cartons’; another ‘blue sheets’. As my loved one sleeps, my eyes glance up to the door in startled anticipation each time someone walks past. Invariably they walk on, and we wait on for a doctor to visit. Rendered still by the unexpected circumstances of the day, I cannot help but observe the details of this place. As time hangs heavy and the patient sleeps, my thoughts turn to writing this chapter, and I recall two other memorable times of waiting in that formative first year as a researcher after completing my PhD.
