Publication date: April 4th 2019
Genres: Women’s Fiction
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EXCERPT:
I am a patient. My job is to lie in this bed. I do my job well. Who I would be at home is less clear. And nobody would be there, beside themselves with relief that I am back.
I’d have to do things, necessary things – plus other things I would have to do just to be seen to be doing something.
Doing things makes me tired.
Doing things leads to other things, and things have a habit of changing when you’d got used to them being a certain way.
My heart broke. My body broke.
The bailiffs came for a cone-shaped piece. What exactly do you people want from me?
*
I didn’t have obsessive compulsive disorder when I came in but might well have it by the time I leave (an okay trade?). There is precious little to do but notice things and how often they occur.
Times per hour I assess how my wound site is feeling: about seven.
Times per day I remember to visualise a healthy wound site: maybe one.
Number of days with a Tupperware lid of cloud cover outside: six.
(The sheets, the walls, the sky – all the colour of bone.
Am I that colour too? I have no mirror to tell otherwise.
Maybe everyone who goes under anaesthetic wakes up in this world of bone, while their previous lives continue somewhere else.)
Minutes per day the nurses listen to a facile breakfast DJ: 120.
Minutes per day I am now able to breathe behind the radio and tune it out: 40.
Times per day I imagine being outdoors for hours on end: one, but it lasts awhile.
Times per day I notice that my left foot sits higher under the sheet than my right: about a dozen.
Times per day I speak: zero.
Times per day I make eye contact with the parent who has come to visit: on arrival only. (I will not cry in a room with a half glass wall, with a person who has to leave afterwards.)
Times per hour I remember what other people have to cope with in life: one, if I make myself.
Times per day I imagine a year from now, when things could be very different: zero, initially, now up to two or three.
Times per hour the perma-grin nurse sings out to the woman opposite, ‘Feeling okay, Nancy?’: too many. (I am waiting for Nancy to be discharged or die.)
About the author
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