This was my first time in an emergency room in Germany, and my first night ever spent in a hospital.
The story begins on the evening of the day before.
After work, I was at the bouldering gym near my home. The air was thick with the smell of sweaty feet and airborne white magnesium powder. The gym was crowded, with people filling the pathways. I made my way inside and found an empty spot. The wall in front of me was overhanging, and not many people were on it. I managed to climb two or three meters before my strength gave out while I was hanging, and I had to let go. Being inexperienced, I landed butt-first. My body failed to react in time and remained upright, sending a massive shock to my lumbar spine.
In that instant, the world stood still. When feeling returned, the pain in my lower back was so intense I couldn’t breathe. Even now, the memory makes my palms sweat. I writhed on the mat like a worm, hearing a mix of concerned German and English voices. My mind was a blank slate, and I mumbled that I was fine, I was fine. But I wasn’t. I just wanted to avoid drawing attention and conserve my mental energy to focus on recovering.
After lying there for a while, I was able to get up and walk. I dragged my battered body home. After washing up through the pain, I lay in bed and immediately began searching for information on my phone. The pain intensified at night, and I knew I couldn’t get an appointment with an orthopedic specialist. So, I quickly booked an appointment with a general practitioner for the next morning. I put my phone down and turned off the lights, but sharp pains shot through my spine, and my mind was filled with a whirlwind of anxieties. Unable to sleep, I picked up my phone again, spiraling into a vicious cycle of worry until I finally drifted off in the early hours of the morning.
The next morning, I first went to the general practitioner’s clinic. The doctor listened to my story, briefly examined me, and gave me two options: take painkillers and go for physical therapy, or go to the emergency room for further examination. Without a second thought, I chose the latter. With the doctor’s referral letter in hand, I took a bus straight to the large hospital near my home.
Perhaps because it was morning, the hospital wasn’t very crowded. As soon as I entered, I was hit by that distinct hospital smell, which completely changed the atmosphere. I followed the signs and found the entrance to the emergency room. It was a wide, frosted glass door, completely opaque from the outside, with only the faint, flickering shadows of figures visible from within. I rang the bell, and the door opened without much of a wait. The emergency room was also not crowded, and the medical staff seemed relaxed. They looked at my referral letter and asked me to wait in one of the rooms. Soon after, a doctor who appeared to be of Indian descent came in to see me. She took detailed notes on my condition and instructed me to go for an X-ray first.
The radiology department was a separate facility that accepted outside appointments but also worked with the hospital, with the latter taking priority. The waiting area for the X-ray was in a glass corridor. Outside was a long passageway with an ambulance parked at the end. I thought to myself that many critically ill people must have passed through here.
After the X-ray, I expected to see the results quickly, but they told me to wait in the main hall. The center of the hall was spacious, with stainless steel chairs lining the walls. Many elderly people were sitting there, but very few young people, which made me feel out of place. The hall connected to elevators and several doors. Every so often, doctors and nurses would appear, pushing patients into the emergency room. The moment the frosted glass doors of the ER opened, I peeked inside and saw numerous beds and doctors moving about. My mind conjured up all sorts of terrible scenarios, probably gleaned from movies and TV shows. In that moment, I truly understood the hardships of an emergency room doctor.
When things seemed to have quieted down, I was called in. The emergency room was much noisier now. Paramedics and the people they had brought in were crowded in the hallway. In addition to the female doctor from before, a male doctor had joined her. We stood together in front of a computer in the ER hallway. He pointed at my lumbar X-ray and said, “There’s a shadow here. It could be a fracture. We need to do an MRI for a better look. You have two options: either you book an appointment for the scan yourself, or you stay in the hospital overnight for the examination.” Without thinking, I chose the latter. The hesitation came only after the decision was made, but regret was pointless, so I had to go with the flow.
I sat to the side, and the female doctor skillfully inserted an IV catheter into my arm. At that very moment, the nationwide emergency alert test went off. The sharp, beeping sound emanated from everyone’s phones, echoing through the emergency room. I suddenly felt that the alarm sound was a perfect match for the ER, like some kind of symphony on a stage, a special background melody that depicted all the urgency and pain in people’s hearts. The emergency room became even more urgent.
With the paperwork in hand, I left the emergency room and went upstairs to the inpatient ward. The nurse at the front desk asked what I needed. I said I was being admitted and handed her the papers. She paused for a moment, and a colleague came over and asked me, “Where is your doctor?” I said she was busy and had told me to come up by myself. Their final reply, “Who tells a patient to come up all by themselves?” left a deep impression on me.
After a phone call, a nurse led me to room 28.
There were four large beds in the room, occupied by two elderly men who were resting. I felt completely out of place. A nurse from Myanmar meticulously showed me the facilities. There was a bedside table, and next to it stood two stands: one for an IV drip and another holding a clunky tablet screen that looked like it was from the last century, complete with a help button. I took off my shoes and hung my empty bag to the side. I lay flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, a mix of novelty and bewilderment washing over me.
I knew I had a lot of time, but I didn’t know what to do with it. I unconsciously bent my arm, and the IV needle shifted in my muscle, a constant reminder that I was in a hospital bed. I scrolled through my phone, then lay flat and stared into space, repeating this cycle over and over.
Every time a nurse came in, she would ask with great enthusiasm if we needed any help. I asked her about the plan, and she said the tests might be tomorrow and that I should just wait for news. It wasn’t until the afternoon that I felt a pang of hunger. The meal tray held boiled broccoli, some short, thick pasta, and beef chunks in a broth. It reminded me of my university cafeteria, where the food was always just passable. I choked down the coarse meal, washing it down with an energy drink. Since it was food and could fill my stomach, I didn’t complain.
The hospital was only a few minutes’ walk from my home. I put on my jacket, covered the IV site, and went home under the guise of taking a walk. I grabbed a charger and some simple toiletries, then returned to lie in bed. I don’t know how many hours passed. I had assumed the check-up would be delayed until the next day, but a nurse informed me that I could get the MRI scan done. I was pleasantly surprised and hurriedly put on my jacket, went downstairs, and waited for the scan.
Some people say that going into an MRI machine can trigger claustrophobia. Online comments circulate, and some people are resistant to the machine, talking about it as if it’s as daunting as getting a tooth pulled or undergoing major surgery. I thought they were being dramatic. Lying on the machine, I closed my eyes, put on headphones, and felt it slowly slide me in. It felt like the sky was gradually darkening. Because I couldn’t move, my senses of hearing and touch became exceptionally sharp. The machine’s humming was extremely rhythmic, sounding like techno music. My mind drifted uncontrollably with the rhythm, and I thought about the enthusiastic nurses: the nurse with a Spanish accent, perhaps a supervisor, who organized everything impeccably; the nurse from Myanmar who could actually speak Chinese, which she said she had learned from her Yunnanese boss at a restaurant. Her tone was energetic yet gentle, and her movements were swift and efficient—truly impressive.
The examination was over in less than twenty minutes. I returned to my hospital bed to find a simple dinner: slices of bread, sliced pork, pickles, and butter. To my surprise, I found that even with such a small meal, I felt sufficiently full. Perhaps it was because I had been lying in bed for so long with no physical exertion, but it was enough to make me reflect on whether dinner really needed to be so lavish, or if it was just a habit or a ritual.
As it grew dark outside, the daytime nurses said goodbye to us, and a new shift of night nurses arrived. Two of them were younger than me and looked like they were still interns. They said they needed to give me an anti-coagulant injection. Hearing the word “injection,” I panicked and tried to refuse. They patiently explained that it was the doctor’s order and had to be done. Knowing I couldn’t win, I gave in. The younger boy clearly used me as a practice subject, giving me the shot in my stomach. His technique wasn’t the smoothest, but thankfully it didn’t cause me much more pain.
It felt like two different worlds. The night in the hospital ward was exceptionally unique, completely different from a normal night. I had thought that a night’s rest would be the best form of healing for patients, but it was actually the beginning of suffering.
My watch had run out of battery, so I didn’t pay much attention to the time. I could see from the corner of my eye that the sky outside was already dark. The ward wasn’t completely dark; a few small spotlights still illuminated the outlines of things. Besides me, there were two old men, one to my side and one diagonally across from me. They were both very ill, seemingly having just undergone major surgery. They lay there listlessly, barely able to move on their own. Pain pumps were connected to their bodies, and various monitoring devices flickered with different colored lights at staggered intervals, emitting rhythmic beeping sounds. Every so often, a low humming sound would emanate from some machine somewhere.
I was half-awake, half-asleep, and thought someone was setting off fireworks outside. I looked towards the small window. The wall blocked my view, and I could only see some colorful reflections on one side of the window, along with the booming sounds. A line from a song came to mind: “Looking at the light outside the window, I can’t tell if it’s a streetlight or the sun.” I wondered what special day it was. What was the city celebrating? We were trapped in another dimension, unable to move, only able to perceive what was happening in that other world through our faint senses. There is no shared human experience in this world. At this thought, I felt a pang of loneliness, so I shifted my body and tried to go back to sleep.
Perhaps because the night was so quiet, one’s senses become magnified, and so does the pain. Around midnight, I heard their heavy groans. At first, I didn’t pay much attention, thinking that the pain pumps should be helping them. But as the clicking sound of the pain pumps being operated became more frequent, the groans grew louder, eventually turning into screams. I could vaguely make out some swear words, but the words were blurred by the screaming. The old man diagonally across from me cried out the most pitifully. The constant vocalization made his throat hoarse, yet the sounds continued. In the early morning, a nurse came to help him once, but perhaps because it was too deep into the night, his pain was not alleviated. He kept crying out until, in the latter half of the night, he lost all his strength and could only let out soft whimpers. The ward fell silent again, leaving only the machines running, and I was able to drift off to sleep in a daze.
I endured a rather difficult night. The next morning, the nurse from Myanmar came for the early shift and woke us up with her usual energetic tone. The daylight streamed through the window, brightening the ward and immediately dispelling the heavy atmosphere of the night. Breakfast was bread, cheese, and coffee. I have to say, the coffee in the hospital tasted better—mild yet refreshing.
After tidying up a bit, I leaned back in bed and zoned out. The old man diagonally across from me was in much better shape. He could barely move, so he needed the nurses’ help for everything from eating and drinking to using the toilet. I saw a nurse lift his blanket, pull up the large surgical gown that was essentially two pieces of cloth, and place what looked like a disposable diaper underneath him so he could relieve himself. Afterwards, the nurse deftly cleaned up the area and went to the bathroom to dispose of the waste. The whole process was extremely professional and swift; it was clear they had done it many times before.
On one hand, I was struck by the hardship of being a nurse or caregiver. No wonder such positions are in high demand in Germany. The pay isn’t high, the work is dirty and tiring, and it requires immense patience and meticulousness. You’d have to be a saint to do it. On the other hand, I thought that replacing real people with robots is a terrible idea. Technology will certainly improve, and in the future, robots will indeed be able to replace humans. But the problem is, this idea comes from “healthy people,” not from “patients.” All patients can do is passively accept; they can’t decide whether their caregiver is warm or cold. I am more inclined to believe that, despite technological progress, most of the wealthy and powerful will choose to be cared for by real humans, not robots.
Another thought I had is that people should maintain a lifelong habit of exercise. Before this experience, I only thought of exercise as a mental boost that could make people feel energetic and full of vitality. Now, having experienced pain, I understand its physical importance. Muscles, tendons, bones, and nerves all benefit from exercise. Once they are strong, even when we get older and our physical functions decline, they can still help us resist various external risks. I hope that when I am old, my body will still be able to support me in performing necessary actions, rather than being frail and full of aches and pains.
After breakfast, the doctors began their rounds of the entire ward. Just like in TV dramas, a slightly older doctor led the way, with a retinue of younger doctors following behind. When they entered the ward, they checked on each patient one by one. I was the last one they saw.
A very experienced-looking female doctor first explained the test results to me in German. Worried that I might misunderstand, I asked her to explain it again in English. Of course, summoning the courage to “ask” was a feat, especially with the young doctors behind her taking notes. I wasn’t sure if a foreigner like me would also be documented as a special case in their records. In any case, the final diagnosis wasn’t too bad. Although there was a compression fracture in my lower back, thankfully the bone hadn’t shifted, which meant no surgery or brace was needed. I just needed to rest. The doctor also emphasized that for at least six weeks, I should not do any exercise or any activity that strained my lower back.
Faced with the overwhelming and anxiety-inducing information online, the doctor’s conclusion and advice put me at ease. Before I packed my things to leave, the doctor gave me the report and specifically told me to rest well and not to Google any information. If my condition worsened, I should just come straight to the emergency room. Hearing that made me feel incredibly reassured.
I walked out of the ward, found the head nurse, and asked her to remove my IV. Finally, with my halting German, I thanked them emphatically for their care and encouragement. While waiting for the elevator, I glimpsed many elderly people being pushed out of their rooms, and I could still hear the sharp, heart-wrenching screams of pain echoing from deep down the hallway.
I walked out of the hospital’s main entrance, feeling as if I had passed through a boundary between life and death. Inside the boundary were pain and death, while outside were vitality and hope. And delicate warmth and love are the rare rainbows that can cross this boundary.
