Anachronistic as they are, newspapers have their place.
In public, people use them as shields, a protection against the vulnerability of solitary moments on buses, in bars or in waiting rooms. At the Toronto East General Hospital, people look nervous, scared even, each person buried deep within their own interior. But still, they shuffle and flip the pages of the newspaper– for perhaps the first time that week—as if merely passing through another common day, their concerns easy and free, practically accidental:
What did that crazy mayor say?
Oh, the Academy Awards nominations are out!
Things in Russia look grim.
Oh, those Leafs!
Coming out of one of the examination rooms, a woman with a shock of grey hair beneath a baseball cap grabs her daughter by the arm, her relief almost a panic, “Ok, let’s go! We don’t have to go to the lab or nothin’!”
Many people, unable to find care for their children, have to bring them in to their appointments. A six year-old boy, holding a toy truck in one hand, shuffles through the room in his over-sized boots, unaware of what the requisition form in his father’s hand or the look on his face, might mean.
Adult children also accompany their parents, and with alert eyes and clear enunciation they translate the doctor’s words. They nod at one another, placing reassuring hands on one another’s forearms.
é apenas um teste, ele será alright mama.
This multitude of impenetrable languages flowing through the hospital is nothing less than the murmuring of angels.
Softly, in another corner of the waiting room sit an elderly couple. They’re holding hands. Slowly coming to the end of a long and beautiful cycle spent together, they exchange the most tender and heart-breaking looks. Their eyes deep with sadness and gratitude, they wait for the news.