“A&E” – a poem by Isobel
Beep. Beep. Beep. The soundtrack of survival. Plastic chairs. Fluorescent lights. Lives lined up in rows, and I can’t even get a seat.
They said suspected heart attack — but the only thing breaking is my patience. Twelve-hour wait. Twelve-hour ache. Am I dying or not? Or do I just have to wait my turn to find out?
My head spins — the room blurs — I taste metal, and fear, and the faint memory of being believed once.
I want to go home. But home’s not safe if my body’s betraying me, and this place, this place, betrays me too.
They’ll call my name, eventually, just to tell me it’s anxiety.
Because when you’re a woman, pain’s just a personality trait. Because when you’re a woman, you can bleed on the floor and they’ll hand you tissues, not treatment.
They dismiss. They demean. They ignore. And they still get paid for the privilege.
I watch people fold into themselves — blood on shirts, breathless prayers, the hum of bodies waiting to be seen.
There is no care in healthcare anymore. Only triage and tired eyes. Only questions that echo, and answers that don’t land.
Will I ever feel well again in a place that calls me hysterical for hurting?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The machine cares more than the doctor does. At least it notices when my heart skips a beat.
I just want to go home. To somewhere quiet. Somewhere soft. Somewhere I don’t have to prove I’m in pain to be helped.
