*
Friday 22nd Overcast.
06.00 still alive. Sitting in the comfortable armchair by the window. Two others are awake and monitoring their phones. Each relaxed in their standard issue uniforms. Of baggy white pants and shapeless, pale blue shirts. The fourth inmate is still battling demons. For his crimes against his cellmates. Don't ask!
I was awake in the night for about an hour. Tiptoed to the toilet and fetched a glass of water. Dropped off to sleep again about 5am.
I am expecting to be released today. After being free of pain or other symptoms. There was no mention of time off for good behaviour. So somebody is obviously taking notes.
6.10 My first exploratory, brisk walk along the corridor is completed. It helps that we, the worst offenders, are at the far end. Which avoids unnecessary doubling back. Before the real journey can begin.
I'd suggest the corridor is about 60 meters long. So my cumulative mileage is adding up. I do try to stick to three round trips per hour. I'd hate to be accused of over-training at this late stage.
Adherence to Guinness Record standards is flexible in the absence of official observers. There is little that can be done to lighten the Standard Burden of one wireless heart monitor. Though I heard one chap tried taking out the rechargeable, lead-acid battery.
The charge nurses did not let that pass unnoticed. They were on him like ton of bricks. He was never seen on the corridor after that. No doubt propped up in a forgotten broom cupboard somewhere.
I have even noticed patients in civvies. With the telltale loop of wires hanging from their bulging waistlines. They can't fool an old recidivist, like me, with their subterfuge!
Rumours that the monitors double as tasers is still unproven. Nobody has risked behavior likely to need such measures. At least, not on my present watch.
So begins the long wait for breakfast. I keep monitoring the skies for drones. Though only gulls and pigeons have skirmished to date.
The sheer scale of the chasms between the parallel building blocks is staggering. Puny humans crawl like ants far below. Thank god for lifts!
Though altitude sickness is still a daily battle. For those of us who have not acclimatized prior to admission. I am grateful for the long climbs on my daily walks. In preparation for everything the hospital can throw at us.
Not for nothing are Danes world class cyclists. No need for them to travel to the high mountains. They need only take the climb into the village. To fetch their morning rolls from the baker.
7.45 The charge nurse has just been around to take my blood pressure. It's all just a ploy really. To get me to give him my password. To prove I wasn't substituted in the night. As if!
The heavy medication continues. Ten tablets this morning. No doubt a futile attempt to erase my memory of the past few days. Before I can meet up with a fellow conspiracy theorist. To produce an artistic video of my torture. All with the aid of AI.
8.30 Breakfast. Porridge of course. With a crusty roll with a tasty cheese. If I can sneak past the guards on return of the dirty paper crockery and sharp-free utensils I'll ask the kitchen staff what kind of cheese. Mellem lageret. Danish for medium mature. My usual extra mature Cheddar is being substituted with cheap Chinese imports. So I want to remain flexible on my release.
8.45 All hands on deck! Severe nose bleed! My brain is taking the easy route out of here. All those blood thinners have taken their toll!
It got so bad the International TV News cameras were assembling. To capture the gory crime scene. Splatter movies doesn't even begin to cover it. Whole teams of nurses were working up a sweat. Taking it in turns at holding my nose tightly. To stop the ward beds being washed away. Cold compresses and even hydraulic clamps were tried unsuccessfully. They even brought in the charge nurse from the food dispensing window. She doubles as a bouncer at the roughest night club in town. The pain just increased. All to no avail. I was force fed ice cubes for hours and told to keep them in my mouth.
In the end they sent me down to Hell in a Basement. More precisely to: Ear, Nose and Throat. For further torture. A gowned and masked operative approached. From the first I didn't like the wild look in his bloodshot eyes.
"I'll just give you a local," he muttered. As I protested through a red mist that "locals" were always far worse than the procedure itself. He nodded in half agreements as the nurse eagerly prepared a garden syringe longer than her arm. With an evil looking 20cm/8" needle protruding menacingly.
Which he promptly shoved up the offending nostril. Causing enough agony for tears to flow freely as I clutched his arm in undisguised terror. Then there was distant talk of burning through the searing pain. I could smell the effects all too soon. As I let out an involuntary scream and more arm clutching ensued.
Having had his fix at my expense. He finished me off by stuffing my poor and battered nose with some weird, white, waxy block and pointing at the exit. I was in far too much pain by then. To even care about the pretty nurse cowering by the door. Her face ashen with fear at my wild and flailing contortions.
So, for those with an appetite for pure torture. A form which leaves dentists trailing in a poor, tenth place. Here's your chance. E, N & T is right up your street. Or rather right down in your local hospital cellar. Years of fun to be had and it's all perfectly legal!
My still writhing remains were gathered up and centered back on the hospital bed. For the journey back up to the light and the heart department. Where I was duly informed that the hospital had had its fun but I was now deemed surplus to requirements. It was a firm, "Pack your bags and prepare for departure and will you be wanting lunch?"
Having swallowed several liters of blood in the last three hours I was not remotely hungry at that point. So there were savings to be made there.
"But I came here for a stent and ended up with a free nose job!" I complained. They were still adamant. I must leave.
The one highlight of the entire day was a free ride home. In a posh, Cherry painted Tesla. Though I was not alone. There were three passengers, including myself, to save on costs. I craned my neck to admire the display screens as we worked our way steadily towards home. Via a quiet cul-de-sac for senior citizens. Where the first passenger was duly turfed out.
I was next. As we followed the long, rough and narrow lane. Leading eventually to Chez Hovel's very own parking space. I was home and safe again. At least for the moment. I'll ring the hospital's PTSD department on the morrow. If I am feeling strong enough.
My visitor did the cooking. Organic pork chops, peas, carrots, boiled potatoes and gravy. Helped down with a pleasant wine.
*
