How Walls Help us Understand the Impact of Caring.
Fallen plaster witness to those who challenge.
They’re easy to miss. To just accept. Maybe to judge. I first saw them when I was sitting in a hospital corridor; waiting. But of course, I’ve seen them before. Never enough to care. Then it changed.
What takes us out of our own little world?
The armour that we wear around us like perfume.
The smooth, passive, solid, regular acceptance.
What chips to reveal our irregular, composite interior?
A hospital wall with fallen plaster and exposed concrete.
What’s the story it tells, and why I care?
Metal legged hospital corridor chairs. Vinyl seats against a wall. To hunch forward with forearms resting on legs, head down. Or to phone scroll. Staring ahead, I chose the “I should use this time constructively,“ observer. What do I see?
A lift, whose button is a germ fest and I shouldn’t touch with my hands. I’ve seen enough hospital staff use their keys or ID badges on the lift button to figure out these circles are mini petri dishes. On my left, a cast iron radiator with metal ribs that stick out. There are chips and nicks along the edges. But only on one side, the side away from the lift. The largest nicks are in a row at the same height. Trolley nicks. Porters trying to get the trolley round the corner and into the lift, hit this side rib, before rebounding onto the opposite wall. Sure enough, the opposite wall has a scar of exposed concrete with fallen plaster chips below.
You can see the physical shoving, pulling, tugging and pushing needed to manoeuvre this maze. How a person worked to move a less mobile person. How the steering, engineering, building design, architecture and careful thought stood still and watched brute force. Despite planning and intention, caring for each other is messy, imperfect, physical and leaves traces not only in the wear and tear on our bodies, but in the forgotten marks we leave during the journey.
I found these knocks again in town. I’d hurried to the blood lab, which opened at eight. Outside, workers try to get an early appointment before a job. Waiting as a group in our masks and trainers. Once the doors open, I stand in line, reading a plaque about the marble arch above me which was the entrance to the old town. Afterwards, walking back and stuffing croissant, my pace is more leisurely. Most of the shops are closed for lockdown, or out of business. The town is changing. Opposite the busy post office delivery centre is an open door. Two pram frames inside. Like the trolley, these prams are to aid those who need help to get around. They’re manoeuvrable until you load them with toddlers and shopping. They encourage the problem solving, route mapping skills of the navigator to avoid stairs and find ramps. At some point you still have to lift, shove, push and heave into a space. The wall by the prams told the same story of imperfect exertion and exhaustion as the hospital corridor. The tiredness and “close enough” before carrying an infant upstairs. The getting so far and then giving a little more.
These stories aren’t at eye level. Not remarkable, attention grabbing, front page in your face. They’re when you come down a notch. When your head bows, what you see from your knees. The humble level.
The walls that remain show our journey. A kindle sample of the story. Anonymous graffiti in stone; someone who tried was here. The impact of care was felt here,; it wasn’t pristine. Because caring for someone is never perfect. It may be missed and overlooked. Unexpectedly, one day it may be recognised.
