THE ROYAL CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL: Echoes Through the Atrium

I don’t know what I expected. The vibrant illustrative marine life, the corals dressed in blues, greens, and pinks, still dance on the glass. Behind them, the computers still sit on their desks, and the medical paraphernalia—blood pressure monitors, thermometers, surgical gloves—still crowd the back wall. The seating arrangement, though, is different: the single cyan structure that once curved into sections has been replaced by a clean line of individual navy-blue seats, anchored by a black metal bar. Their commitment to horrifically stiff, uncomfortable seating is honestly admirable. The reception desk has been upgraded too: what was once stark white now bears monochromatic Indigenous art, with “wominjeka” printed on the far-right side. Above the desk, a monitor reads: “Please be kind to our staff”.

I rested my legs, swollen and blotched with angry red lesions, atop the dashboard. Sadie—my blue stuffed rabbit—muffled my screams, my tears matting her fur. I rocked to the pulse of the pain. My parents never left me alone, let alone for this long. That’s how I knew something was wrong.

Through the window, I could see my parents, gesturing to me emphatically as they argued with the receptionist. She could see me from her seat. It was the middle of the night; apart from our car, the spaces just outside the emergency department were empty. The debate was escalating.

My mom pulled my dad aside. He sprinted up the stairs that bridged the lower and ground floors. A few minutes later, he re-emerged through the automatic doors, wheelchair in tow.

He wheeled me into the waiting area, straight past reception. The receptionist was conversing with a colleague, sneaking glances at him. He glanced back—eyes sharp, angry, saying everything his mouth could not.

An imposing voice sounded on the PA system: “Code Grey – Emergency Department Reception, Lower Ground.” We knew what it meant.

A team of uniformed men flooded the space—firm, intent. They asked my dad what the problem was. He calmly explained. They tried to check me in to cut the wait, but the receptionist insisted it couldn’t be done until I was physically in the building. I couldn’t get into the building without a wheelchair, and she insisted none were available. She told them I’d have to wait at least a half hour. She made no attempt to contact anyone.

All he did was look at her.

They took one look at me—whimpering, mottled legs elevated on the seating structure—and dropped the case. There was a wheelchair in the back, they told us.

I guess I thought the countless blurry nights spent rushing through these halls would erupt in vivid colour. I guess I thought the fear I’d buried all those years ago would lurch out of me, demanding to be felt, demanding to be grieved. The memories are here, but they feel distant—an echo, not a scream. For years when we passed this place, I held my breath like a kid passing a cemetery. Now, I sit next to my mother in the space we never thought we’d be this far away from. Now, it’s just a place.

As someone exits the emergency waiting room, we slip through the convening door’s narrowing gap before it seals shut. The aquarium that had been dormant the last time I was here is alive again, stirring with motion and colour. A toddler in dinosaur pyjamas points at the fish as they circle the tank. It’s unprecedentedly quiet. I’ve never seen it this empty. My memory of this place is filled with screaming babies and twelve-hour wait times – with the anticipation that swelled as the automatic doors swung open—the disappointment that replaced it when the name the nurse called wasn’t yours. I notice the vending machine has been moved. Like clockwork, a nurse calls the next patient; a couple rise from their seats, releasing the brakes on their daughter’s wheelchair, her gaze fixed on her iPad. By the time I was fifteen, I didn’t have to wait in here anymore. One call, and I went straight from triage to the privacy and plasticky pillows of the short-stay bays. I suppose there are perks to being a Very Important Patient. My mom and I sit in a stillness we would’ve never thought possible all those years ago. I ask her if she feels anything. She says she feels strangely unattached. I do too.

We make our way up the staircase connecting the lower and ground floors. It’s a familiar trek for my mother, the first leg of her early morning paper route, fetching me breakfast—or a chai latte if I needed cheering up—while I waited to be transferred to a ward. I realise that in the near-decade I practically lived here, I never walked these stairs. I couldn’t.

Reaching the top is like opening the front door to the house you grew up in: the same speckled tiles underfoot, the same art adorning the walls, and the furniture exactly where you left it. Creature, the hospital’s landmark sculpture—a giant plasticine jumble of shapes and colours—still towers in the centre of the five-story atrium. Its eyes, wide and curious, are fixed on a monarch butterfly perpetually perched on its outstretched hand (if you can call it a hand). I remember reading that Creature and the butterfly—two beings, one great and one small—were meant to reassure children that the hospital was a friendly place, that they were safe here. That intention is painted onto almost every surface of the building.

I take in the scene plastered on the wall: fairy penguins, the twelve apostles, the blaring sun. The walls of every floor are decorated with sketches of animals and scenery matching its Australian theme—most of them bright, all of them cloying. LG is Underwater, G is Beach, 1 Earth, 2 Forest. The higher you go, the more the themes stretch upwards. At one point or another, I’ve been a patient on every single one. The old hospital had blank white walls and cramped shared rooms. The new one demanded you see it as a place to go, not a place to endure. With each admission, each abuse of power, each betrayal of trust, the sketches seemed to shift, mocking me with their unwavering smiles. “Aren’t you having fun? Don’t you feel safe?” I remember thinking that if the sculpture were honest, Creature would accidentally crush the butterfly in its hand—and hope its family didn’t sue.

We head toward the specialist clinics, past the electronic self-check in kiosks that were installed only shortly before I aged out of the system. Bottles of hand sanitizer are fastened to the wall beside each one. There’s hand sanitizer everywhere now.

At A6, pathology, I watch the queue of parents watching the screen, waiting for their child’s number to pop up. A young girl, ten or so, rests her head on her mother’s shoulder, her eyes half-closed. I wonder how long they’ve been waiting. I don’t even know how many hours we logged here over the years. If the hospital had a frequent flyer program, we would’ve reached platinum status in no time. Gastroenterology, rheumatology, cardiology, ophthalmology—blood tests, bone density scans. They were all here. My mom used to try to stack as many appointments into one day as possible. We’d leave early in the morning, hopping from clinic to clinic. I’d try to read or get some homework done through the shrieks of inpatient toddlers. Chronic illness is a sport. It requires strategy.

With no guide necessary, we tour every clinic. The gaudy yellow walls are still gaudy and yellow. The lime green seating remains intact. I don’t think anything has changed at all. Except that—with the exception of pathology—it’s practically empty. Even the meerkat enclosure is deserted. I presume that most of the doctors are on leave during school holidays; that’s the only justification I can think of. They were always double, triple, quadruple booked. It wasn’t unusual to wait hours for your 15-minute window of face-to-face.

My dark sunglasses shielded me from the fluorescent lights. Nothing could shield me from the noise. Kids jumped up and down on the seating structure, laughing and screaming. It was hard to differentiate the two. Both cut through my frayed senses like light through my cornea. I felt every jolt.

I had a blanket draped over my legs. My mom held my hand. I kept my eyes closed. I had to.

I started to cry, my eye pulsating. The pain medicine was wearing off. I pulled the blanket over my head.

“How long have we been waiting?” I asked.

“Three hours,” my mom sighed. She’d already asked reception how much longer the wait would be. Twice. Their answers were empty, PR-trained.

“Olivia?” an unfamiliar voice called. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. It wasn’t the ophthalmologist. It was nearing four o’clock, the hospital powering down for the night. They wanted their wheelchair back—too valuable to risk losing—so the saccharine-sweet voice asked me to move into a shittier one. A disposable one. I complied, cursing under my breath.

Fuck this place.

We pass the green lifts on our way to the Starlight Room, the ones that lead to the wards. A bald man waits for the elevator, a large overnight bag slung over his shoulder and a plastic bag of food in his hand. He reminds me of my dad, who always took the overnight shift so my mom could be home for my little brother. He’d arrive with dinner from the outside world—the familiar whoosh of the curtain track announcing the moment we looked forward to all day. When I woke in the morning, after he’d gone to work, I’d be greeted by my favourite Apple Cinnamon muffin from one of the cafes downstairs. My mom recalls sitting in front of these lifts and weeping uncontrollably while talking to my doctor on the phone. I can picture her: the exhausted woman with puffy eyes and unkempt hair, carrying the big zip-up purple folder she’d assembled—and that every doctor ignored—containing every detail of my medical history. She wore her sorrow like a second skin she’s since shed. I wore my anger like a hazmat suit, shielding me from what I was convinced would kill me if I were exposed.

The virus, I guess, is now contained.

Through the window to the playground area, I notice a statue I’ve never seen before. I’d recognise him anywhere. Ralf – the therapy dog. The gentle giant with the shaggy black coat. The local celebrity who made his rounds like the most seasoned of nurses, padding from bed to bed, offering a kind of comfort no one else could. A smile nudges my lips. It feels only right to see him cast in bronze.

We pass the bean bag cinema—a favourite pastime of ours. Every now and again, when I was well enough, my brother would pull a sicky and spend the day with me. We’d cosy up to watch whichever kids’ movie was showing that week before heading to the Starlight Room to play Mario Kart. It was the only quality time we had together after I got sick. He never understood what hospital life was really like. But I suppose that was the point.

The Starlight Room is barer than I remember. A volunteer approaches and welcomes us, asking what brings us here—likely noticing that neither of us is, in fact, a child. My mom tells her we’re doing an in memoriam. I tell her that’s an inappropriate thing to say in a children’s hospital. The horribly out-of-tune piano I used to play from time to time is gone. We leave the kids to their video games and arts and crafts. We don’t belong here anymore.

We stop for a bite before heading upstairs; the food court hasn’t changed one bit. McDonald’s is packed. Aruba’s display boasts the same wraps, salads, and baked goods from a decade ago. I recognise the owner, now greying, behind the counter. Business as usual. To my dismay, my go-to meal isn’t on the menu at Shuji Sushi anymore. I ask if I can still get a curry veggie don and the guy manning the register nods without hesitation, handing me my order number. As I wait, my mom—cheeseburger in hand—tells me she’s surprised at how disconnected she feels from the person she once was. I open my container to see the same too-large tofu chunks my dad always cut smaller for me when I couldn’t do it myself. It tastes exactly the same.

Stepping into the green lifts, my mom presses 1 for perhaps the last time. The doors open onto a vast empty space. All the green seats are gone.

As we walk down the desolate corridor toward Kelpie—where I spent more nights than in my own bedroom—we take in the patient art displays lining the wall. One of them showcases The RCH Song Book, featuring my original song, “Release in the Daybreak”, written here when I was sixteen. I snap a picture for posterity.

It's quiet. An empty bed waits at the edge of the recreation space, its orange power-cord draped where the pillow should be. I glimpse a nurse in the medication room. There’s no one behind the reception desk. My mom points me towards the batch of rooms I occupied most frequently. I never paid much attention to my room number. They were all the same anyway.

She pulled the tourniquet tight. Too tight. I pumped my hand while she tapped my skin, relaxing music drifting from my phone.

“Not having much luck tonight, huh?” she said. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

“This morning,” I corrected, flat, matter of fact. It was 4am. I hadn’t slept.

“Have you been drinking water today?” she asked, scanning my arms and hands, tapping harder, avoiding the bruises.

“You mean yesterday?” I rolled my eyes. As if water would help. “Yes.”

“I’m only trying to help,” she said. They didn’t get it. They couldn’t. Did she not see the swollen red dome bulging out of the crease of my arm? Did she not understand that a seventeen-year-old who’d been doing this for seven years would be angry? I told the day nurse the IV was blown, that it stung in a way that it shouldn’t, that I needed a new one. It flushed just fine, though—so obviously I was full of shit. The IV pump hadn’t stopped beeping all day. They just told me to keep my arm straight. Brilliant, wish I’d thought of it.

“I know,” I replied.

“Alright, I think I found one,” she said, pushing down on my skin, anchoring the vein. “Are you happy for me to try?”

I sighed. “Delighted.”

When I decided to come back after all this time, I avoided telling my therapist. I was sure she’d tell me it was a bad idea. That I’d risk re-traumatising myself. That’s what she said when I told her I wanted to start going through my piles of medical records—sorting them, piecing them together, restoring what the trauma erased. I wanted to remember what my body never forgot, what it reminds me of every day. I didn’t tell her, because I knew I would do it anyway. It was time. I was healing. As we sit on Kelpie, hearing the familiar beeps of the call bells, looking at the fading photograph of our shared trauma, I exhale.

I see that it was.

I see that I am.

Olivia Di Grazia writes with the body as archive and memory as landscape, exploring trauma, resilience, and the complexities of identity. Her work moves between pain and humour, fragility and strength, seeking to illuminate what is often unspoken.