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Authors: Hugo Wilcken
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been fishing for answers. If so, I’d set him straight, at least. Now they knew my identity, wheels would surely be set in motion. I opened my eyes again, almost surprised to see the ceiling, the walls, the bedside table. There was something notional about this attenuated existence in a hospital room—a reality my brain didn’t necessarily want to believe in. When the nurse came back, I’d have it out with her. I’d ask about the locked door. I’d ask to see another doctor. I’d need to speak to the police as well, of course. It was quite outrageous. I hadn’t even been told which hospital I was in.
No one came. They seemed so random, the nurse’s visits, I could never tell when they would be, and they always felt like an unexpected interruption. Outside, the light was fading. It would be night soon, and I would sleep, a dreamless sleep as always. Then in the morning, I’d see the woman on the balcony. Unlike the nurse and doctor, she was entirely predictable, always there at the right moment. How did I know that? I had no clock in the room. It might just as well be the nurse’s appearances that were regular, and those of the woman on the balcony were random.
When I did wake up, sometime in what I presumed to bemorning, I found myself with a drip in my arm again. I pulled it out and pressed my hand to where the needle had been, to staunch any bleeding, but there didn’t seem to be any. I managed to sit myself up and stared through the tiny window for what felt like hours, but the woman didn’t appear on the balcony. I knew she wouldn’t; I’d missed her. I’d slept right through her.
2
The doctor visited several times over the following days. There were more medical examinations, which became increasingly cursory. Afterward, he’d take out a notebook and ask me questions. Where I was born, where I was educated, where my office was. At some seemingly arbitrary moment, he’d put the notebook away and leave. At first, I’d answered quite passively. The whole setup—the doctor-caricature, the emptiness of the room and its unremitting whiteness—pushed me toward apathy, acquiescence. But on the fourth or fifth visit, I lost my temper. “Enough of the questions,” I said, “I want answers. I want to know where I am, why my door is always locked. I want to know what my prognosis is. I need to see the police.” Suddenly I found myself in a rage, almost screaming. Out of nowhere, a couple of male orderlies appeared. I hadn’t laid a finger on the doctor, had done nothing beyond raising my voice, but they pinned me down on my bed. I felt a prick on my arm, then nothing.
The visits continued. We carried on as if the incidenthadn’t happened. In truth, I was embarrassed by it, which in turn made me more compliant. I remembered the infantile outbursts of patients—born of confinement and impotence—from my time as an intern. Almost every long-term patient had them at one point or another. And then afterward, they’d be embarrassed, docile, just as I had been. I remembered, too, the patients’ constant quest for more information, and the doctors’ constant reluctance to part with any, lest it be misconstrued, used against them. I’d spent so many hundreds of hours in hospitals, but never before as a patient. It was unsettling to be on the other side of the equation.
The interrogations, too, continued. Perplexed, at a loss as to how to respond, I figured I’d simply bide my time, until the shape of my circumstances became clearer. By now, we’d exhausted the simple facts of my life. We’d moved on to the minutiae. What subjects I’d enjoyed at school, who my friends were, where I went on vacation, what I did with my spare time. My professional life; my sexual life. The experience of being relentlessly questioned was mesmerizing. It was boring, and yet unsettling. The doctor was coming every day now, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon. Each time he stayed longer. We were down to
No one came. They seemed so random, the nurse’s visits, I could never tell when they would be, and they always felt like an unexpected interruption. Outside, the light was fading. It would be night soon, and I would sleep, a dreamless sleep as always. Then in the morning, I’d see the woman on the balcony. Unlike the nurse and doctor, she was entirely predictable, always there at the right moment. How did I know that? I had no clock in the room. It might just as well be the nurse’s appearances that were regular, and those of the woman on the balcony were random.
When I did wake up, sometime in what I presumed to bemorning, I found myself with a drip in my arm again. I pulled it out and pressed my hand to where the needle had been, to staunch any bleeding, but there didn’t seem to be any. I managed to sit myself up and stared through the tiny window for what felt like hours, but the woman didn’t appear on the balcony. I knew she wouldn’t; I’d missed her. I’d slept right through her.
2
The doctor visited several times over the following days. There were more medical examinations, which became increasingly cursory. Afterward, he’d take out a notebook and ask me questions. Where I was born, where I was educated, where my office was. At some seemingly arbitrary moment, he’d put the notebook away and leave. At first, I’d answered quite passively. The whole setup—the doctor-caricature, the emptiness of the room and its unremitting whiteness—pushed me toward apathy, acquiescence. But on the fourth or fifth visit, I lost my temper. “Enough of the questions,” I said, “I want answers. I want to know where I am, why my door is always locked. I want to know what my prognosis is. I need to see the police.” Suddenly I found myself in a rage, almost screaming. Out of nowhere, a couple of male orderlies appeared. I hadn’t laid a finger on the doctor, had done nothing beyond raising my voice, but they pinned me down on my bed. I felt a prick on my arm, then nothing.
The visits continued. We carried on as if the incidenthadn’t happened. In truth, I was embarrassed by it, which in turn made me more compliant. I remembered the infantile outbursts of patients—born of confinement and impotence—from my time as an intern. Almost every long-term patient had them at one point or another. And then afterward, they’d be embarrassed, docile, just as I had been. I remembered, too, the patients’ constant quest for more information, and the doctors’ constant reluctance to part with any, lest it be misconstrued, used against them. I’d spent so many hundreds of hours in hospitals, but never before as a patient. It was unsettling to be on the other side of the equation.
The interrogations, too, continued. Perplexed, at a loss as to how to respond, I figured I’d simply bide my time, until the shape of my circumstances became clearer. By now, we’d exhausted the simple facts of my life. We’d moved on to the minutiae. What subjects I’d enjoyed at school, who my friends were, where I went on vacation, what I did with my spare time. My professional life; my sexual life. The experience of being relentlessly questioned was mesmerizing. It was boring, and yet unsettling. The doctor was coming every day now, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon. Each time he stayed longer. We were down to
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