Where am I? Hospital? I know I came here to have my borgchild… Not the planned date but something went dreadfully wrong. 6 weeks before I planned his arrival. Yes. Where is he? Is he also here? Yes, this is a hospital but where are the other patients? I am in a room. There’s a television above my head. Masterchef. Ha. Comforting. The lights are dimmed down. To my right is large window taking up the entire wall. I look out and see nurses at some sort of station. The fluorescent light makes them gleam neon as they sip their coffee and share life anecdotes. Where is my light? Where is my coffee? Where is my life? The tube in my nose is sickeningly intrusive and I want it out. It feels as though it’s too far up my nostril and panic sets in. I start lifting the bottom half of my left leg to draw some sort of attention to my plight. It actually moves. They sip their coffee. They pair off. Tears stream down my dry cheeks as I try to kick the edge of my bed. I have to get this pipe out. Part of it brushes against the corner of my lip and I try to usher it with my tongue towards my teeth. I will bite this fucker out. I succeed and the tube is between my teeth. With every ounce of my dwindling sanity, I pull the tube out and the ooze creates trails of victory down my neck. I think I smiled. Relief. The wretched machines start to beep and a rickety old nurse rushes into my dark room screaming at me. She is upset. She menacingly shoves the tube back up my nose and I have never felt so helplessly violated in my entire life. She continues to scream at me as I cry and cry and cry… She leaves in a huff. I had no voice. I had no option.
I had no means to defend myself. No weapon. Is this humanity? Alone. Useless. Petrified. Where is the man with the colourful shirt? So alone. Masterchef. Sleep.
Voices. Another language. That’s not English. What is it? I open both of my eyes but can only grasp my surroundings with the left one. The right is in denial and wants to lavish sleep’s embrace. Three black spots. Still on the wall. Can one of you bastard nurses please clean that spot? There’s three of them around my bed. They start removing the sheets and my gown. I am to be bathed. The moving bits of my body are now my eyelids, my lips, my tongue and a little bit of my left leg. Nothing else complies to my need to run. I want to run. I just lie there. They carefully push me over onto my side, mindful not to obstruct the many tubes, pipes and machines attached to my body. This is not my body. I realise this now. I merely live in it. It has abandoned me. Betrayed me. My heavy torso is resting on a needle entry point in my right arm. It hurts so much but I have no voice. There is a warm cloth on my back and it feels divine. Contrasting feelings and I decide to let the warmth take precedence over the prickling pain. The soap smells like home. What is home? Where is home? The nurses are merrily chatting along, bathing my useless body while my mind wonders what my name actually is. Who am I? They complete their task and leave me there. Clean, confounded, catatonic. Masterchef is still playing.
My body was so drenched in pain at this point that sanity was a fleeting, floral memory. On the other end, I was starting to come to my senses. A modicum of emotion was exaggerated by my rebooted brain. I long to properly describe the utter ineptitude of self I felt. Defeat in a fight I did not know I was a part of. This pain, the proof of my existence. This bed, the vessel of my healing. This body, not mine to call my own anymore.