• God wants me dead. I pissed him off. Pissed him off good. I don't know what sent him over the edge. Maybe it was my off-color, sacrilegious sense of humor. Maybe it was the bilby I drowned in a duffel bag. Whatever it was, one thing is clear - the great skyfairy wants hardcore vengeance, and he wants it now. Let's educate you on what’s happened so far. If you don't want to read, I'll summarize it for you in the next two words.

    Get lost.

    Wednesday 4th.

    I wake up at 4:30am feeling like my kidneys hijacked bulldozers and went apeshit on my abdomen. I assume I am either really ******** hungry, or constipated to the max. I stumble to the kitchen, grab a peach, take a dump, and go back to bed. I feel slightly better.

    I wake up again at 6:30. Something's definitely up. My kidneys; unsatisfied with the carnage caused by bulldozers; have commandeered tanks and started burning down the Reichstag that is my middle half. I am in serious pain. In my infinite wisdom, I decide to ignore it, still thinking I might just be hungry or constipated.

    It's now 10:30. Screw university, I'm not going; not while my organs are having a civil war. I drive up to the medical center and take a seat. "There'll be a two hour wait - the doctors running late," she says. I'm in severe pain by now.

    It's 11:30. Sitting up is getting unbearable. I ask to lie down on a bed somewhere, and the receptionist lady obliges. Angry geriatrics envy my special treatment. I feel powerful.

    It's 12:00 or sometime, when bang. Holy mother ******** of s**t. Raw, intense pain. Someone just Nagasaki'ed my bowel. A doctor comes in and watches me writhe in pain. He asks, "Are you ok?" I reply, "My stomach is on fire." He pushes on my abdomen, then my lower right abdomen. I nearly go catatonic and grip his hand. Wup-wow.

    Maybe ten minutes later I'm in an ambulance with a morphine needle in my bum. Morphine is great. I remembered the old people's faces of disgust at my special treatment. It makes me smile. All is good in the world.

    I rock up to hospital. A doctor comes and assesses me. He is not happy. He has a monobrow though, so I need not respect him. I get more drugs. I go to sleep.

    I wake up and its night. Monobrow tells me they've called in the surgeon from dinner with her husband to do emergency surgery on my appendix which has ruptured and caused peritonitis. 10% mortality rate in healthy patients. Good, I like a challenge.

    I am prepped for surgery. Nurses wheel me into the operating theater late that night. Just before my bed enters the operating room, an attending stops me. She says they haven’t done the pre-check on my details. She checks my wrist band. It says Mrs Finch, Jessica. "Mrs Finch, Jessica" has no allergies. Lucky her. I on the other hand, am deathly allergic to penicillin. Penicillin had been put on my treatment schedule. They take another ten minutes to correct things. My confidence is not great. My last words to the attending doctors is, "I'm glad someone knows what they're doing." I recognize a monobrow above one of the attendant’s masks. I smile. I don't even feel the anesthetic. I go to sleep.


    Thursday 5th.

    I wake up early in the morning. It is around 5am. I feel sleepy as s**t. Someone is standing above me. It takes me a few seconds to make sense of the face. It's an ex-girlfriend's mum wearing a nurse’s uniform. Then it hits me.

    She's going to smother me with a ********.

    My eyes close again and I fall back asleep. I had survived. Boy was I on a roll.

    It's 9am. The operating doctor comes to see me. She says she removed widespread infection covering my entire mid section with a particularly bad infection in parts of my abdomen and kidney. Apparently, my left kidney was displaced so as to be directly adjacent to the perforation where the infection originated. Smooth move God you cunning b*****d. Luckily for me, my other kidney was having a picnic up north during the whole ordeal. You're fault for giving me two you sneaky son of a b***h.

    12 hours from death she estimates. Groovy, I feel pretty good. "That's because you have morphine in your drip." Fantastic. Bring me some pie and I will be content.

    The doctor leaves. I fall asleep.

    It is mid afternoon. A nurse is changing my canular. A canular is the big tube in your arm that the drip connects to. I watch her take it off and replace it with a new canular. She then leaves. I turn away and fall asleep.

    Woops. She didn't put the valve on. Bad, bad girl.

    You see, veins have valves. This stops blood from flowing backwards in your body. Essentially, the liquid in my drip stopped going in and blood started coming out.

    A good half hour later a nurse walks in. She wakes me and runs out the room. I have a quick look around and glance at my bed. It is soaked in blood. It's soaked through my clothes, through my sheets, through the mattress. Everything. My left arm is stained entirely on one side. I lift my arm and leave an arm print of white. The nurses come back. Goodhuckabee consciousness. To sleep again I go.

    ---



    Things to come include psycho nurses trying to kill me, falling down in the shower, a near car crash, a run in with a different ex girlfriend's mum's psycho new boyfriend, a run in with a bicyclist on meth and a bus crash.

    I s**t you not, all of this will be explained. God wants me dead. Read at your own risk. You have been warned.


    Friday 6th

    I wake up. I am not bleeding or dying. This makes me happy. I look out the window. I shrink back into my pillow. God's just getting warmed up.

    The nurses bring me jelly and only jelly. It is all I can eat. Jelly begins to become the nutritional equivalent of abortion. It is the disastrous mess of what was once sweet sweet glucose. I am taken off the morphine. This saddens me. I am given a different painkiller.

    I have it in my hands and think to ask the nurse what it has in it.

    "Penicillin."

    Great. Why not arsenic? Maybe a dash of cyanide? Hey let's just fire an RPG point-blank into my cerebellum and call it a ******** day. I once again remind them I will die if I have penicillin.

    "But it says you're not allergic."

    Really? Are you shitting me? And to think I've been misinformed all these years. I'm glad the people who had me undergoing surgery as a married woman of 40 odd years are on the ball with their clip boards. In that case just put the tablet in my drip. Maybe I'll have a stroke, and maybe you'll have a stroke of common ******** sense. Everybody wins.

    It's night time. I have visitors. Visitors make me happy. A queer and weird nurse enters the room and tells me I need a heparin needle. It's a blood thinner which prevents deep vein thrombosis. Sounds good to me. She interjects in the conversation with a god-awful joke. I comment, "that one went over my head." She is not impressed and gives us all a funny look. As she's leaving, I make a comment about her strangeness. Out of the blue she says, "I heard that," and just stares at me.

    Then she left without incident.

    No, as if that could happen. God's ******** aggroed remember? She turns off the light and closes the door and says "fine". The whole room plunges into darkness. I'm serious. She left me in a hospital bed with my visitors in pitch black darkness like you'd expect an eleven year old would.

    "Weren't you meant to get a needle?" says my friend.

    Oh yeah. Lookin' forward to that puppy now.

    My friend's stumble around and find the light switch, muttering about this nurse. My friend's girlfriend trips on my drip on the way out.

    No problem. Not like it's connected to the vein in my arm or anything.

    About ten minutes later the weird nurse comes back.

    "Your friends are so nice. So very nice," she says. She speaks in this sweet sarcastic voice. I am actually pretty scared at this point. She's so obviously not right in the head I can't begin to understand how she holds employment at a hospital.

    I roll over so she can put the needle in my thigh. These heparin needles are small needles. "Painless needles". They are actually, when done right. Haha, God, you played this next card well.

    She ******** jabbed me with this thing and I jolted. She then pulled the needle out without injecting me and got up close in my face. "Don't move next time, if you do, and it the needle breaks off in there, you'll need to go into surgery again to get it out. Would you want that?"

    I kid you not. She said that. I probably should have made an official complaint. But what the s**t was I going to do. I nodded as she ******** jabbed me again. I couldn't sleep on that side all night and it stung like a b***h for hours. I don't know whether she injected heparin into my blood or my ******** bone marrow, but it sure felt like the latter.

    I didn't see her again. Thank god. I asked the doctor that night how many more days I'd need to stay in hospital.

    "4 more days," she said sternly.

    I looked out the window. God had me on the back foot - trapped in this hospital. But if I could hold out, if I could hang on till Tuesday, I'd be free from his grasp.

    I couldn't have been more wrong. Darker days were on the horizon.


    Sunday 8th

    It's 3am. Someone is waking me. It is dark. I am afraid. It's psycho nurse. She touches my shoulder. I think I want to die.

    "I thought I'd come check on you."

    Oh sweet deal. I too wake others up at ridiculous times of the night to check on their state of mind. Maybe next time bring a ******** air horn. Entertain the whole ward. I tell her I'm fine and just want to sleep. She just looks at me. There's a screw loose in her brain, that's for sure. I close my eyes for sleep again.

    "We've restricted your visitors so you can rest easier," she says.

    You can't be serious. How can the hospital restrict who I can and can't see? I am still calm. I ask who it is restricted too.

    "Hospital staff only."

    No way. No ******** way. Psycho nurse smiles again and leaves. You sly son of a b***h God. In cutting off my supply line to the outside world the situation becomes painfully clear. My room has become Stalingrad. s**t is definitely going to hit the fan. There is going to be a domestic. It takes the anger a long time to fade. I fall asleep.

    I wake in the early afternoon. A nurse is standing over me. She holds in her pudgy hands 3 jelly cups. She is not happy. She has more chins than fingers, so I need not respect her.

    "I found these in the cupboard."

    I tell her I put them there. With my hands. All by myself.

    "Why didn't you eat them?"

    I tell her I don't like the jelly. I tell her I would rather eat my infected appendix than the nutritional effluent they call jelly. I tell her I would rather poison a beaver, s**t down it's neck, and lash it with the infected bowel tissue they took from my cold unconscious body, than eat the aborted Downs syndrome substance they call jelly.

    This was an unwise move.

    She leaves and returns with the head of the ward.

    "The nurse tells me you're being uncooperative. This is the second complaint we've had."

    It doesn't take much imagination to figure out who made the first complaint. The Duchess of ******** herself. But God should know better than to ******** with me in the afternoon. I can fight back in the afternoon.

    "Stop trying to send me to the morgue and maybe I'll play dice with the pirate ship you call a hospital."

    This was the second unwise move I made. Boy did I feel big for about .2 seconds.

    "We've taken away your visitation rights. Eat what's given to you or there will be consequences."

    I try roll over to show them the massive bruises psycho nurse gave me two nights prior, but they are already gone. The jelly cups sit on the lunch tray like wobbly green demons. I take out the permanent marker I found in the bedside drawer. On one cup I write "Return to sender", and on another I write "Auschwitz is the other way, wacky". I am hilarious. I can see the medical world falling to its knees laughing. Sadly, the health care system went Nazi-Germany on comedy's butt and destroyed laughter in the Clown Holocaust of 1945.

    Good times.

    It is night, I must've fallen asleep. The jelly cups are gone. So is my permanent marker. In fact, most of my stuff is gone. All that's left is my mobile phone. I pick it up. I am happy. I have survived. I have only two more nights before freedom. Two more nights before I can drive the hell outta here.

    Or maybe not.

    I have a single message. It's from my sister.

    "Hey I cant visit you bcuz its restricted. I forgot to tell you this before, but when i was following the ambulance I banged your car off a concrete pole in the carpark. It's in the smash repairers. I will pay too fix it. Please don’t be mad."

    A nurse walks in. It's heparin needle time. She holds a jelly cup in one hand.

    I am in medical Stalingrad, and a cold winter lies ahead.

    God is pissed off. Royally pissed off.

    And he's coming across the Volga.


    Monday 9th

    I wake up. It is morning. My priorities are in order.

    Contact doctor.
    Get soup.
    Survive.

    Psycho nurse walks in with the ward head and the lunch lady. They are the three medical musketeers. Angry, angry musketeers.

    "We phoned the doctor."

    Fantastic. Progress towards a goal that won't put me six feet under. That's a first. I ask about the soup.

    "We told her about your behavior."

    I ponder this for a moment. I try hard to think of an answer that would most benefit my situation, and maybe even improve my relations with the nurses.

    Instead, I ask about the soup. There is me, and there is soup. Nothing else matters. I want this made clear.

    "Yes, you're allowed to have soup."

    I smile. I am happy. I have waited so long for this day. A food with smell. A food with warmth. A food with personality. I consider making sweet love to the soup. I drop this consideration immediately.

    "But you'll have to compliment your diet with jel-"

    Her words mean nothing. The soup rests on my lap. It steams away. I close my eyes. To taste it is thrilling. Absolutely mind-blowing. I moan the sensation softly. I hum and shuffle and exhale. It is orgasmic.

    I open my eyes. The musketeers are still watching me. Not awkward. Not awkward at all. I figure I may as well be polite. I hold the spoon up to psycho nurse.

    "Want some?"

    I smile. She is unimpressed. I know she's jealous. Harpies love soup.

    "I'll be your care-taker for tonight."

    The head nurse chimes in to finish psycho nurses' sentence. Nurses aren’t capable of individual thought. They rely on a chattering hub of ineptitude and disinformation to make decisions. Natural Selection turns a blind eye. God has them on his dirty pay roll.

    "Until then, behave and don't leave your ward. Your visitors are still restricted. We've stored your stuff in another room until you are ready to leave."

    Wait, where's my phone.

    "We've placed it with your other things."

    Oh no you don't you dirty scoundrel. My phone is my personal property. Get ********.

    "You can collect it tomorrow."

    I protest. I threaten to call King Louis. I threaten to call D'Artagnan. But I get nowhere. The musketeers walk out together. As one, they are vulnerable. As three, they fear nothing. I finish my soup. I will need the strength. Medical Stalingrad is in dire straits. Every line of communication has been cut. Higher nurse echelons have me surrounded. Sporadic food drops will not sustain me.

    One more night. One more.

    I wake up. It is night time. Just before eight o'clock. It is silent. I can hear the nurses scurrying about. Perhaps they are searching for cheese. One of them asks another nurse if she's done the heparin rounds.

    "Doing them now."

    It is the chirpy, sinister voice of psycho nurse.

    "67 should enjoy it."

    They both laugh. I think nothing of it. I am oblivious. You devilish b*****d God. My complacency is to your advantage. I leave my defense ill-prepared. Precious time is lost.

    I glance the sign above the door.

    67.

    Oh no. No ******** way. Not this ******** s**t again. I remember the last heparin needle this psycho b***h gave me. I remember her getting up close and personal - blood-tipped needle in hand. I shift into overdrive. I weigh up my options. I am scared. I am afraid. s**t's about to hit the fan, and I'm still in my ******** pajamas.

    Then, sitting up, I eye something poking out from behind the adjacent room curtain.

    Jackpot.

    But I didn't think I'd go that far.

    Then again, God goes as far as he ******** wants.

    My room is dark. The light is off. I see light emanating from the hall way. It is foreign territory beyond the darkness, but there is no time for caution. My needle is already one minute overdue. Slowly, I edge toward the door. I glance around the corners. My eyes sting. A nurse walks with her back towards me to the West. To the East, a family heads to a set of elevators. The elevators will be closely guarded. To the North lies an empty hallway. My decision is made for me.

    I gun it.

    I have never commandeered a wheelchair before, but by ******** did I haul butt. If there was a Nascar for cripples Id've taken pole position. I get past one room. Then another. And another. I am getting tired. Half my energy goes to keeping the stupid thing straight. The other half goes to keeping the thing moving. I realize it is ******** hard to use a wheelchair for the first time. My arms are aching already. I'm running on soup from 8 hours ago. I come to the next room.

    Patient Lounge.

    Holy s**t I've hit Switzerland - neutral territory. I wheel myself in there. I bang myself on the door on the way in. Two men; one in a wheelchair himself; look at me as I roll into the corner. I've bought myself some time.

    But not enough.

    I hear psycho nurse's voice. She is not happy. She has only killed 2 patients today.

    "67 isn't in his bed."

    Another nurse has the answer.

    "Check the patient lounge."

    ********. I am royally screwed. The only exit is the entry, and there is no time to escape. I shift into over-over drive. I don't fully understand the implications of my brain's over-over drive. It is a risk I must take.

    I roll to the table in the middle of the room and grab a magazine. It is a Woman's Day. Excellent. There is hope. My arms are burning. I make a final push toward the door, just as psycho nurse - needle in hand - comes around the corner. She stands in the doorway. Her shadow fills the room.

    Enter s**t. Enter fan. Commence'th the shitten'ing.

    I throw the Woman's Day at her feet.

    "YOU SHALL NOT PASS."

    I stare into psycho nurses' black eyes. Katie Holmes glares at psycho nurse from the floor. I am touched by her gesture. Holmes is a hero. Her sacrifice will not go unheralded. The man in the wheelchair is frightened at the unfolding events. I want to take his hand. I want to tell him he is safe. But I cannot leave my post. The patient lounge is at stake. Someone must defend these people, and that someone is me.

    A second of time passes.

    Psycho nurse is pissed off. Beyond pissed off. Her face turns red. The head nurse appears behind her. I grip the handles of the wheelchair. I am getting scared. Beads of sweat pool on my brow. Miss Holmes looks to me for help. I see fear and uncertainty in her eyes.

    Too much s**t. Too small a fan.

    I wake up. It is around midnight. My thigh hurts from the heparin needle psycho b***h gave me. I am now being closely monitored by the nurses who check me every half hour. They have been instructed not to let me leave my room. The head nurse stood next to the bed as I ate my jelly dinner. She made certain I ate it, and then removed the tray.

    My spirit is close to breaking.

    I look out the window.

    "Tomorrow, God."

    Light from a passing street car strafes the room. Shadows move across my face.

    "Tomorrow, the fight comes to you."