Room 21

“She’s as stubborn as an ox”, he informed me. Shaking his head emphatically, husband folded his arms across the chest. Today, the white polo t-shirt with Burberry's signature collar stretched tightly to accomodate his plumpness, his khakis gripped below the paunch. Wife wore a tailored floral dress that hung on her thin frame. Her indignation seemed to take over her entire being, making her pretty eyes bigger. They flashed with anger at her husband of two months. Her hands flew up, then went to the sides of the chair, and back to her lap.
“ What?! And you? you... you're a silly goose.” This was all she could muster. The passive-aggressives usually become tongue-tied when emotionally charged.

I felt my heart beat faster in the chilly room. It is usually too stuffy or too cold in Room 21. Today the central system was turned up. I looked down surreptitiously at my watch but the effort was not appreciated. The young couple hardly noticed my presence. This session was going no where, not with the intensely deaf head-butting and defensiveness. But just as that thought swept through my mind, a pleasant silence entered.
Finally some signs of exhaustion were beginning to show. They sighed simultaneously, nodded as though affirming to oneself that they had each put in enough evidence against the other, and turned to me.
I arranged my features to look ‘professionally questioning’. Tone: peace-loving and calm; ideas- nil.
“So. I think that it is all very encouraging that you both have taken time off to be here. We hope that this twenty minutes may be of help. Have we agreed on what we want to discuss here and now?”
“I still think that she should listen to me. And…”
“Thank you Robert. We start from here. Prissy, how do you feel about Robert’s thoughts on this?”
Wife beamed as though having gained the approval of the school master to speak.
“I think that not all he says is wrong, about managing household expenses and all that. But I think that he should also respect my opinions too. Afterall…”

This was my last case before the 1pm lunch hour. I locked up room 21, stifled a yawn in front of the waiting queue as I headed back to the office. Feeling grateful as I sunk into the workstation, this “office worker stuck in a routine” glamorized by film-makers and tv producers is making me a quite a star. But my mind goes back to the couple I just saw and a few others. For sure, theirs is not a romantic picture, even if divorce is given high profile in media. People just aren’t trying hard enough to keep it together, or are they? What can little me do in this crazy world? A flood of hopelessness sweeps over me and I hardly taste the tomato. But as quickly as the emotion came, it also trickled away. I quickly finished up the milk, ignored the apple and went to nap.

At 2pm, I walked back to Room 21. There he sat. The third time I see him this month, and each time with a new story of remorse and refreshed expectations of a miracle worker to pick up the pieces left behind by his gambling addiction. These people come with the hope of seeing some cash put squarely in their hands. They leave without getting what they had came for; not even money for a ride home, and a pocketful of nagging. Still, they return. Like this hunched, disheveled fellow here. In the wise words of my supervisor, “they only need for someone to scold them.” At least they know that they aren’t alone.
“Kent.” I addressed him.
He remained slumped, like me as a result of some protein digesting in my stomach.
“ Kent?” I said a bit louder and closer his ear.
Still no answer.
I gave his shoulder a tap and then shook him gently.
His head lolled to the side in an unusual manner. Which was then that I saw.
Red meandered from the nose to join with the white at the mouth, forming a thick pink foamy stream. I felt for pulse.
“Press the side button on the phone.” A voice sounded in my head. This is the button that promises help whenever we feel threat coming from a client. I had felt no threat from this client. Only a pervading coldness. And my own irritating quickened heartbeat. As if pressing the button might take away those feelings. But I did so anyway, and the nursing aides swarmed into the room. In a matter of minutes, they had put Kent onto the stretcher and out of room 21.
Aside from the report I had to write, my duty for this case was over. I was offered a counseling session, that I thought was ironic. Like a person with schizophrenia, the voice of my superior comes again in a haunting manner. “What sets the worker and client apart, is only that one is more fortunate than the other, at that point in time.” The tables have turned on me.

I didn’t think that it'd be the last time that I see Kent. I'm admittedly crazy about tv shows and movies, but I also saw how Kent’s overdose might not have been all that highly toxic and warranted dead by the director. For sure, it may have been an accidental lethal cocktail of what-have-you, but Kent was no substance user. The only drug he possibly knew and could get was panadol ultra. As he told me later on in the medical ward with the pristine counters, freezing air-con and automated sliding doors, popped 70 panadols after perusing a loanshark letter.
“And the nosebleed?” (because one just does not get nosebleed from paracetamols)
“ eh hehe.” His face cracked sheepishly
“Too much wolfberries from the herbal soup. I eat it by the dozen each bite because I love it too much,”

After my visit to him, I returned to room 21 to meet Harriet, a young girl with early onset bi-polar disorder.