The stretcher curtains open to reveal a young, thin, First Nations lady. Blood surrounds her head, staining the white pillow in geometric shapes; her large fawn-brown eyes stare up at me as I ask her questions.
Half way through asking her about who her family doctor is, she begins crying; her frail shoulders shaking violently. Taken aback, I watch her dark, stringy hair shadowing her bent face, while reaching for the generic floral pattern box of cheap Kleenex kept at every bedside. As I place the box in her crumpled lap, her tiny hand reaches out and grasps my arm, tightly whispering
"I'm going through a hard time..."
Before I have a chance to respond, she launches into her story, breathless, panicked;
"I was living with a guy for 6 months when yesterday morning I woke up and he wasn't there, I opened a note on the table that said he was HIV+, and that he was sorry for not telling me."
"What am I going to tell me children?"
Her tear-stained words hung in the air.
I stood by her bed and held her hand, until she finally cried herself to sleep, watching her small exhausted body rise and fall; giving way to the steady rhythm of sleep.
There was nothing I could say that would make it alright.
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