My fugative moment.
All I wanted to do was go home and get my laptop. I explained to the doctor that I wasn't expecting to be in hospital for so long and I didn't bring anything with me to keep my occupied for such a long time. He said I would have to talk to the nurses on my floor and they would organise a taxi for me.
The next time one of the nurses was injecting me I asked her if I could pop home to pick some things up.
No.
Eh? Just for an hour I explained. I'm going to be in here for a long time and didn't bring anything with me.
Can not go.
Only for an hour. I just need to go, pick some things up and I'll come back.
Can not.
The Doc said it would be ok. I'll come back. I need books.
I finally managed to get across to them that I simply wanted to go home *temporarily* to collect some things, and that I would be coming straight back to hospital. They finally see what I've been trying to say and book me a cab. Moments later my hospital phone rings. It was the International Desk downstairs. They wanted me to pay my bill. I'm not discharging I explain. I will come back. I just need to collect some things from my home. But what about the bill they ask? I can't leave until it is paid. I'll be back in an hour I imply. All I want to do is go home, quickly pack a bag, and come straight back. I'm going to be here for a week, I need some personal items. My treatment is not complete they tell me, why do I want to leave? Aaarrgghh. I *dont* want to leave. I *do* want to go home, momentarily, and then I *do* want to come back. I will keep my hospital blues on if they want, I have a canular in my arm, I have a drain in my face, they can keep my passport if they want, they can keep my Visa, just please *please* let me go home, only for a moment, and I promise I'll be back.
Ever so slowly I manage to communicate that I'm not discharging myself. They seem very relieved about this and my taxi, like a golden chariot, finally arrives.
On the journey back to my hotel I feel like I'm escaping from prison. I just know that the taxi driver has instructions not to let me out of his sight. He probably has a gun in the glove compartment and a radio built into his shirt collar. My 'wardy has an exciting life' fantasy is squashed faster than a blackberry in a Ribena factory when my friends back at the hotel die laughing upon hearing what I have in my face. Still, it was nice to dream.