I’d long since forgotten the distinct aromas of hospital wards; bodily fluids of diverse repugnance, sterile disinfectants, bland hospital food that lingers on the breath long after habitual consumption, and if you haven’t been able to shower for a little while, your own foul odours that remind you just how disgusting you are. My last hospital stay that ran for an extended period of time was back in 2016, for roughly a little over a week. Now, I’m back for a sophomore stay, not because of anything concerning my tumour that remains either a slither of what it once was or scar tissue left behind from its disintegration, but rather a silent heart attack. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. On Monday, I’d called 111 in the hopes of getting some medical advice regarding tight chest pains that hadn’t subsided for several days. I’d just gotten over a nasty bug and believed the chest pains to be the epilogue for that strain of sickness. I was advised to go to A&E for investigation, and after seven hours of waiting around for answers, I was informed that my heart was damaged. Later, I would learn that a silent heart attack had occurred, which had resulted in the damage of the aortic valve. I’ve remained here as an in-patient while I await a procedure to determine whether or not my caffeine-abused heart (this, it seems, was not the cause for the attack) requires a stent fitting.

Admittedly, I have always had something of a blasé approach to my health. I don’t eat particularly healthily and I rarely exercise (though my intake of alcohol and the occasional cigar has all but stopped on account of my daughter’s birth). So, in a sense, I shouldn’t be surprised this has happened. Hospital stays aren’t exactly fun; you get prodded for blood, get fed lacklustre food that probably upsets more stomachs than settles, and depending on your situation, you have to piss into a bedpan. (Thankfully, this time I’m not required to do so, but I get asked more than enough questions about my bowel movements). Worst of all, there isn’t exactly a lot you can do to pass the time. Sure, I’ve got my laptop and my books, but I hate not being productive with my time. I hate waiting even more. And this time, it seems all I’m doing is waiting; waiting for a date for the angiogram, waiting for the all clear so I can go home to my family, waiting for an idea of when I can go back to work. But what really sucks is the fact that I’m here on Mother’s Day, my partner’s first that we would’ve celebrated accordingly. Missing out on that will always be a major regret. What’s driving me even crazier is that I have no idea when I’ll be able to get back to my daughter, but I’m hoping it’s sooner rather than later. Missing her hurts worse than anything else. In the meantime, I’m managing my boredom and anxiety by catching up on my reading (Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis, Lee Miye’s The Dallergut Dream Department Store, some back issues of 2000AD) and scribbling down ideas for future stories. That always helps. Being busy with ideas has often been the best remedy for me (though I must say the copious amount of pills have worked wonders for my heart). But the best part of my day is when I get to see my daughter, if only for a little while due to limited visiting hours.

Picking her up, holding her close and looking at her beautiful eyes as they begin to exhibit a newfound curiosity for the world works more wonders for the heart than any medicine ever could.