The breakfast tray

It was mid-morning, halfway through ward round.
“Who’s next?” I asked.

It was a man. Ninety-something.
A man living with dementia.
A wanderer.
Alone.
Isolated.

I bathed my hands in alcohol rub. I donned. I walked in.
It was dark. The blinds were down.
No wonder he was asleep! He almost looked like a teenager.
I went to pull up the blind. I struggled. It was broken … not a good start.
I tried the other blind, hoping it would work. And it did — up it went!

“Good morning!” I greeted.
The man stirred.
The breakfast tray sat, untouched.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
I wondered what he liked.
I offered, “Would you like some juice?” “Maybe some yoghurt?”
“Yes,” he said.
I placed the yoghurt in his hand, and gave him a plastic spoon.
He held the yoghurt. He held the spoon.
I waited.

“Go on,” I encouraged him.
But he did not eat.
So, I borrowed his spoon, and scooped up some yoghurt.
His tongue sprung into action, and licked the yoghurt.
“Mmm …!” he voiced with satisfaction.
“More?” I asked
“Yes,” he said.

He had more yoghurt
   … and more juice
      … and more yoghurt
         … and more juice.

We were alone.
Isolated together.
A hungry patient, and a slightly thirsty doctor.
Just the two of us.
I heard him breathe via the stethoscope.
I breathed with him.

In this isolated room, there was stillness.
In this lockdown city, there was restlessness.
In this pandemic world, there was hopelessness.

All the while, the breakfast tray sat quietly.
It proudly held cereal, coffee, sugar, milk, and some plastic cutlery.

But I had to go.

I heard the door open. His nurse came in, gown and all.
Thank goodness! She saved us a call.

As I was leaving, the room appeared a little lighter.
The city had another little fighter.
The world, perhaps, became a little brighter.

I walked out. I doffed. I obsessively washed my hands.
I recited my findings to my colleague.
“It was dark, so I opened the blind. He was asleep, so I woke him up. He was hungry, so I helped him with some breakfast.”
“… And … his chest?” my colleague asked.
“Oh …” I added, “and his chest was clear.