My hospital room window overlooked the city skyline. It was a mix of wide sky, sky scrapers and construction sites. The sky was often blue, and once it blushed pink at sunset. The top of Eureka Tower shone like a Wonka Golden Ticket, particularly bright when it was cloudy. And the cranes were a sign of things happening – both a tool in a construction site, and somewhere for Southern Cross flags to hang and flap mid air.
I couldn’t see much life from the ninth floor. Life (and death) was happening outside, but I could only see it on my phone. I kept my blind open just in case I might see something outside. That and I was too short to reach the blind cord and so I had to stand on my suitcase to reach it. I saw a lone star one night, it pieced the navy sky. It was more inspiring than the beige walls, hand sanitiser and a syringe disposal unit that I looked at all day.
Opposite my window was a helipad for the air ambulance to land. During my stay, the air ambulance came four times. Three times on Friday night and once on Saturday. I felt bad that the arrival of the air ambulance was like a live display in my very own Christmas window. But I looked (and took that one photograph) anyway, in awe at the enormity of the operation. The technology. The fragility. How lucky we are to have this medical skill and presence. The responsibility that comes with the occupation. The severity of these patients’ conditions, which of course brings perspective. And the speed and potential distance. Amazing.
The air ambulance hovered above the hospital for a long time, so you know it’s going to arrive. It rumbled loudly, landing with precious cargo and met by medical professionals on the helipad. Once it landed, it was shielded by the hospital building. Some privacy. I couldn’t see the air ambulance anymore. But I had hope. I hoped the patients inside the air ambulance were ok, that they had loved ones to support them. And if they weren’t ok, I hoped the air ambulance was collecting or delivering organs to give new life.