Free The Patient by Mohamed Khadra

operation done.
    Frustrated that Jonathan couldn’t give him a definite answer, he said, ‘Well, for the time being, make sure you hand those big projects to Jake. We really want you to get well, and I don’t want any added pressure on you right now.’ How kind his boss was being.

    It was seven weeks later when the call finally came from the Admissions department, and by the end of that week, at 6.30 am, he presented himself at the Victoria Hospital.
    The admissions procedure made him feel much like he was in a mob of cattle at a sale yard. Instead of his skin beingbranded, he had plastic bracelets fitted to his wrist and to his ankle. Is there a chance of my arm and my leg being separated? he thought. He answered the same questions several times on a multitude of coloured forms. Each time, a different clerk, nurse or intern went through the same routine. Why are you here? What operation are you having? When did you first notice the blood in your urine? Are you allergic to anything? Are you on any medications? Jonathan became irritated. Why did they need the same information a thousand times? He hadn’t seen Derek Johnson since the consultation in his rooms, and he needed to ask him some questions about the operation and about his recovery afterwards. Derek was nowhere to be seen. In fact, he wasn’t even in the hospital yet; he was still doing his ward rounds at one of the three private hospitals where he also had patients admitted.
    Tracy was getting the girls ready for school. Her mother would come over in the afternoon to look after them so Tracy could come and visit him, but for now he was all on his own and could merely fume inwardly.
    A nurse who had a manner that made her seem better suited to working for the Gestapo told Jonathan to remove his clothes and handed him an antiseptic wash. She instructed him to wash himself with it, then get into a white gown and come back and wait to be called. Jonathan obliged, walking into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. Immediately, he noticed the brown stains on the shower curtain, the streaks of faeces in the toilet and the tap dripping into the sink, forming a green stain. The floor was slippery, and he noticed a clump of hair stuck to the tiles in the corner, as if a mop had been used to paint the floor with grime rather than to clean it.
    He was glad he hadn’t eaten since last night or had any coffee that morning, on orders from the doctor’s bitch secretary, because he now felt nauseous. He dry-retched into the toilet, took his clothes off and placed them in the paper shopping bag he had been handed, and stepped naked into the shower. Adjusting the temperature proved almost impossible as the slightest movement of the tap made the water alternate between scalding hot and freezing cold. The antiseptic cream was difficult to lather, but he spread it around himself as best he could. He placed a large amount of it in his palm and spread it over his genitals and into his buttocks, around his anus, as the nurse had told him to. Once he’d rinsed and dried himself with the hand towel he’d been given, he donned the gown and an elasticised hat and went back to the Urology waiting room.
    The nurse came back soon afterwards. ‘OK, so you’re having a gall-bladder operation today –’
    â€˜No. I’m having a cystoscopy,’ he cut in quickly. If only Tracy were here to share his disbelief.
    â€˜Oh, the ward clerks have typed up the wrong operation on the sheet. Hang on, and I’ll get it corrected. You had a shower for nothing. But it won’t do you any harm.’ With that, she bustled off.
    The anxiety Jonathan was already feeling about going under the knife had rapidly escalated. How could they get his operation details so wrong? How could they make an error of this magnitude? He even started to worry about whether he smelt. Otherwise, why would she say the shower wouldn’t do him any harm? What