Apparently during my week in hospital, I've lost just a quarter of a kilogram. How can this be? I've had three days of fluids only, two days with little appetite and two days of not fancying hospital food. And no alcohol for a week. Sorry, the scales must be wrong.
As well as the big gash in my chest, my sternum is swollen and my torso is decorated with bruises and puncture marks.
Nurse Min is with me again, after her weekend off. She describes driving through the Barossa Valley with her husband. They had lunch at a pub and bought local jams and other produce. I haven't been outside for a week. I can't wait to take a breath of fresh air.
Min's husband used to be an oil driller and they lived in various places around the world. Due to industrial accidents, he landed in hospital several times. Visiting him in an overseas hospital, she decided to change his sheets. This task became an archeological dig; removing the sheet revealed another one soaked in blood, and under that was one covered in mud. The doctors would sit down with the patients and have a smoke. And the patients would order their meals from MacDonalds or Kentucky Fried Chicken.
She also worked at another overseas hospital. The patients would store their hand-guns and knives in the bedside table drawer. And after welcoming a new patient, she had to ask for the cheque; the cost of the hospital stay had to be paid in advance. If the patient had health insurance, reimbursement could be claimed later. People would mortgage their homes, or borrow the money from loan sharks.
I feel very fortunate to have had such good care.
But my lunch is not very nice - even the dessert looks horrible. The fact that I'm complaining suggests it really is time to go home. Instead, I eat some of the chocolates brought by friends.
My husband and son stack the flowers onto a trolley. Slowly we make our way down to the exit.
When we turn into our street I feel overjoyed. I'm going home to my couch and my DVDs and my own bed.
My son makes a pot of coffee. I sit down to eat a cupcake made by a friend. It has cream cheese icing and crunchy almond slivers on top. I watch two episodes of "Mad Men" on DVD, as rain pours down outside.
I have to sleep on my back, in the same position, all night; forever, perhaps. Through habit, I wake at the hospital observation hours of 2 and 6 am.
At dawn, I slide back under the covers and into a dream in which I am riding a bicycle on a sunny day, along a riverside path. The grass is tall and I am not wearing a helmet.
As well as the big gash in my chest, my sternum is swollen and my torso is decorated with bruises and puncture marks.
Nurse Min is with me again, after her weekend off. She describes driving through the Barossa Valley with her husband. They had lunch at a pub and bought local jams and other produce. I haven't been outside for a week. I can't wait to take a breath of fresh air.
Min's husband used to be an oil driller and they lived in various places around the world. Due to industrial accidents, he landed in hospital several times. Visiting him in an overseas hospital, she decided to change his sheets. This task became an archeological dig; removing the sheet revealed another one soaked in blood, and under that was one covered in mud. The doctors would sit down with the patients and have a smoke. And the patients would order their meals from MacDonalds or Kentucky Fried Chicken.
She also worked at another overseas hospital. The patients would store their hand-guns and knives in the bedside table drawer. And after welcoming a new patient, she had to ask for the cheque; the cost of the hospital stay had to be paid in advance. If the patient had health insurance, reimbursement could be claimed later. People would mortgage their homes, or borrow the money from loan sharks.
I feel very fortunate to have had such good care.
But my lunch is not very nice - even the dessert looks horrible. The fact that I'm complaining suggests it really is time to go home. Instead, I eat some of the chocolates brought by friends.
My husband and son stack the flowers onto a trolley. Slowly we make our way down to the exit.
When we turn into our street I feel overjoyed. I'm going home to my couch and my DVDs and my own bed.
My son makes a pot of coffee. I sit down to eat a cupcake made by a friend. It has cream cheese icing and crunchy almond slivers on top. I watch two episodes of "Mad Men" on DVD, as rain pours down outside.
I have to sleep on my back, in the same position, all night; forever, perhaps. Through habit, I wake at the hospital observation hours of 2 and 6 am.
At dawn, I slide back under the covers and into a dream in which I am riding a bicycle on a sunny day, along a riverside path. The grass is tall and I am not wearing a helmet.
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