Sounds in the emergency department can be dire. I don't blame people who yell out in pain, or moan with their injuries. Maybe the release helps ease pent-up emotion. 

But this week there were two noises that caught me by surprise. Although I could not see the patient behind a shield of nurses, I heard a baby's cry. It is both an impetus for maternal compassion, and the evidence of air breathing lungs. Someone is here, who moments ago was unseen and untouched. I think that the crowd around the child drew more than just attending nurses. People thirsty for fresh life wanted to be among the first to welcome him. 

The birth happened in the driveway, which is less than ideal where cleanliness is concerned. But staff quickly wrapped the newborn and brought him in. I only caught a glimpse of the mother. She looked tired. 

The other instance happened in the trauma bay. The page that sent me into the elevator said that two patients were arriving in the burn unit. I steeled myself for what could be a serious encounter. But the first man, the one with tattoos on his arms, was laughing. I always try to stay out of the way of nurses, but one invited me to talk with him.

"How are you doing?" I asked. 

"I'm GREAT!" he bellowed, and laughed again. 

"I am glad to hear it!" 

Another message appeared on my pager, and I only spoke with him briefly. He did not seem in need of comfort, though I was curious about his mood.

Heading back to the floors, I wondered. Was it because he narrowly escaped what could have been much worse? Was he awash with gratitude, after what was probably a close call? 

Hospitals are crucible sites for those of us who inhabit these vulnerable packages called bodies. Emotions can leak as messily as body fluids, and the witnesses outnumber us. But if that infant was any proof, many of us are drawn in by the chance to come close. And there is no expectation that anyone says the right thing.