“Zeroing in on the cause of your fever will help us guide treatment”, came the reply, as a host of faces crowded around the bed. Yellow, red and brown tubes were filled, followed by two receptacles that looked like Lee and Perrins Worcester Sauce bottles. X-rays inspected on laptop screens pushed around on trolleys (“COWS: computers on wheels” they call them), rather than the light boxes you see on the TV; no more Dr Kildare. Worried faces. Voices above the beeping of drip machines, syringe drivers and an alarming hospital bed.
Urgent referrals, with the same questions repeated from the different specialists who visit throughout the day. Telescoping time, on lubricated joints, slipping in and out of dimension.
Still for a moment, after all the bustle, I look around the room, taking it in properly for the first time in daylight. Removing equipment and furniture from our view, the room is glaringly white, bathed in artificial light with the red alert storm outside.
Quietly working in the background are nursing staff, also all in white. Periodically a doctor or domestic pops in, uniforms providing additional colour. Offers of food are declined. Nil by mouth, under strict orders of the consultant.
Most of the day is spent sleeping, interspersed with bursts of sharp pain or nausea inducing trips along long corridors, also mainly white, apart from the occasional poster, often legacies from the Covid pandemic.
Jargon fills the air during ward rounds and when on the receiving end of the multitude of tests and investigations.
I work with The Foundation Doctor to capture the experience, dictating the words as she types away on her mobile during snatched breaks. Holding the little screen to my face she helps me select accompanying photos. Google Images usually rises to the challenge, with my amateurish snaps backed up since I acquired a smart phone.
Evening falls, and the room returns to its black and white as the lights are dimmed and blinds drawn. Doctors change shift, but The Foundation Doctor is back finalising this blog with me in her time off.
Certain details are still missing from my story, and other memories are tangled up in my fever dreams. Blogging is helping my recovery we agree, progressively documenting my thoughts as prompts for future “forgetful days”. Anchored in my bed I have a three-letter acronym nagging away, poking about inside, teasingly, just out of reach.
THE BENEFAKTOR, ABLY ASSISTED BY THE FOUNDATION DOCTOR
23 OCTOBER 2023
GANTOB blog 