Someone collapsed on me today.

He was easily 6'1', maybe 6'2'. Large African man, young, in his late twenties, with muscles on his muscles. He'd come in today for removal of stitches after lacerating his middle finger punching through a glass door. Common complaint. It's either that or a window. Which is surprising because you think that people would learn.

One minute, we were threading the suture cutter underneath his bright blue nylon stitches, deftly removing the knotted string from scab and skin. The next, he was on the floor. From my place next to him on the examination bed, I watched him fall, graceful in slow-mo, past my tucked knees, his shoulder the pivot as his deltoid rolled past in one fluid motion, to land softly on his cushioned upper arm, his head lolling unsupported as if straight from the guillotine. It all felt very natural.

By the time I got to him he was ragdoll-limp, and his eyes a dull empty grey. I reached for the emergency buzzer but within 15 seconds he was himself again. Perhaps a bit confused about being sideways on the floor, but otherwise alert and orientated. I thought about his steely dead irises just a moment ago, and ended up asking for a pen-torch and routine observations anyway. (Pupils equal and reactive to light. Observations within normal limits, unremarkable.)

'You right to stand?' I held out a hand. He took it with his injured hand, his wounds opened in the fall. His blood ran through the network of my joint lines and palmar creases. I supported him onto the bed and lowered the headrest.

'Call my ex,' he croaked.

There was no answer on her end.

'Must've been dehydrated,' he muttered, to me and himself. 'Haven't eaten this morning.'

I murmured non-committal assent, to make him feel better about himself. Common problem, I said, happens to everyone getting their stitches out, needles, blood samples. Two nurses began cleaning up the mess, bandaging up his finger and his wounded pride. I listen to them coo and cluck like hens and am grateful for their warm maternal presence, allowing myself to be comforted by that allegorical blanket. I am not a clucker and have never been. When I try, I squawk. Like metal grating on metal. Professional, impersonal, impassive, indifferent, deadpan. I sound like I am not surprised by anything.

Scrubbing my dirtied hand with chlorhexidine, I dialled the number again.

Woman's voice. Impatient. There are babies crying in the background, at least two, and the heavy rustling of movement heard over the receiver. She had either pinned the phone between her ear and shoulder or was juggling it from right to left among a handful of other household duties.

I explained the situation. 'He's just collapsed during a consultation in hospital. You were his first choice of contact. Can you take him home?'

A pause. Then a frustrated sigh, followed by, 'No, I can't take him home. You can't be calling me like this. I'm not his next of kin. Did he tell you that we've broken up? A long time ago?'

'He said that you were his ex-girlfriend, yes.'

'We're no longer together. He's no longer my responsibility.'

I silently watched his eyes change. Shining. Hopeful.

'I'll contact his family - no, you know what? I don't have time for this. He can call his family. I've got things to do. Don't call me again.' The line went dead.

'How is she?' he asked, when I put the phone down.

I contemplated the truth, then settled on, 'She's busy. Is there anyone else you can call?'

In that moment, his eyes reverted to their deadened state, glassy and opaque. 'Don't worry about it,' he said.

The nurses had done their job and his forearm was now delicately wrapped, from elbow to fingertip, in layers of fluffy cotton and returned to the plastic splint. I heard them adjust the brace, fix the velcro straps. When they left, they revealed a hollow man, his eyes dry but cast skyward, desperately examining something on the ceiling invisible to me. His good hand held his forehead. I could hear him consciously inhaling, exhaling and inhaling, counting the seconds between each measured breath. He lay there for twenty, thirty minutes, counting breaths.

I finished my medical note.

'Is it common?' he asked. 'For that to happen.'

'Very common. Happens to the best of us.' I reworded. 'Happens to all of us, actually.'

'Thanks,' he said. He wasn't unsteady on his feet, wasn't dizzy or seeing stars. I offered to walk him out, but he held out a hand as I got up out of my chair and said that he was fine.

And so he left me, alone, in that room that smelt of bleach and macerated tissue.