We care about our children's health. We care about our mental health more, and this is why I decided to buy a Coke and go thirds with both my kids. There had been some earlier travesty in which my daughter had been embezzled out of the last mouthful of the only coke she had been allowed to ever have and was justifiably upset by the whole thing. I had found myself in the unenviable situation of having to wait for what turned out to be three hours with the kids while Tan was in an eye appointment.My daughter's misery weighed heavily upon my frame.
I decided to amp the kids up on sugar and caffeine in order to improve their moods.
Upon purchasing the Coke we found a place to sit, us three, while we consumed it. The venue was the dispatch/drop off entry at the rear of Charles Gairdener Hospital. A massive empty room last decorated in 1972. The carpet was made up of those square tiles of pony hair that any poor soul tripping or sliding across would be eviscerated. In fact there were darkened patches in places across this enormous chamber. Around the walls of this catacomb were pieces of artwork created by Western Australian artists and understandably hidden here.
In this setting we sat listlessly, silently, passing the bottle back and forth. No one speaking. After some minutes the bore water stained doors abruptly slid open and an elderly man in a wheelchair was delivered by a large mustached man in a white uniform.
"You can take yourself the rest of the way." Were the only words uttered as the doors suddenly closed again.
The man sat motionless at the other end of the cavern. A huddled form that seems entirely incapable of doing anything. The coke continued to be sipped as we passed it back and forth in silence. The three of us sitting on the only chair in the entire room. The man, the room, the three of us set out like some sort of Post Modernist Exhibition. It was the most exciting thing the room had seen in years.
His withered hands unfolded from his lap and almost incredibly the wheelchair began to move. It hissed as his leathery hands slid to find their place and move the wheels inches forward. And this was all there was as we silently watched the man move across the room like the moon across the evening sky.
Eventually, as he drew closer I broke the endless silence by asking if he wanted to be pushed. I waited, dreading the response.
There was no response.
He had absolutely no idea that we were there. He was completely unaware of anything other than the chair. Probably a good thing given the art was truly deplorable.
It hissed passed us. None of us took our eyes off him.
Then, as he was about to pass out of sight around the corner he spoke. Startling us.
"Thirty bloody years of THIS."
The silence swallowed his words as he vanished around the corner. We silent witnesses beheld the futility and the passion contained within. My daughter then began to giggle, trying to drink the last of the Coke, becoming increasingly hysterical with laughter as my eight year old failed to purse her lips around the bottle. The word 'bloody' had struck her as mud slung across the masterpiece of post-modernity we had all beheld. Perfect and a privilege to behold.
