For the second time in recent weeks, my personal space has been invaded by a nutty woman. It’s 3am. My cancer is flaring up in my pelvis. I sit up on the side of my hospital bed to ease the pressure on it and stare out of a window through the blind slats.
The door to my private room, presumably an isolation room, opens. I don’t have the ability to swiftly spin around but as the door opened the lady involved immediately addressed me with the words “it’s time for me to go, when are you going to let me out?”.
I know the NHS has a few vacancies on the books but I didn’t realise I’d been appointed to make such decisions during my tenure.
She takes a seat and starts demanding that I help her with her two heavy bags. Sod that, I’ve travelled light and fear I’m going to struggle to carry my meagre bits and pieces home with me.
I politely said “I’m a patient and think you need to find assistance elsewhere”. She muttered something and stayed seated for a couple of minutes. I remained unmoved and didn’t look at her. Eventually she left without speaking.
I seem to be attracting such situations. But they’re certainly not a choice.
I have woken up groggy this morning but successfully made it to the bathroom. I think my mind is clearer about where I am. The doctor visited. I recalled her from my September visit to the ward where she described by medical notes as making me the most unlikely man in the world to get a dose of lung cancer. Still, she reckons they’ll discharge me this afternoon with some antibiotics.
I forgot to mention my nocturnal visitor. I am fairly sure she was real though.