Last week they bought in another patient in the bed next to me in ward 13.

That’s not an unusual event at a hospital and since my recovery after the accident, there’s been at least a dozen new faces in this ward alone. Mavis is her name. Looks to be in her 80’s, five foot if she’s lucky. The first thing I thought when I saw her was that it looked like she belonged in palliative care rather than this ward. I’d seen enough people die to know that when a body is ravaged and as weak as this woman’s, there isn’t a lot of time left. I wonder whether Mavis has had a similar experience that my mum did before she passed. She went from a fit and healthy specimen to a shell of herself in three months but by the time her cancer was diagnosed it had spread through her organs and into her bones. By then there was little chance of any other outcome than a quick degrading death. My grandfather also. He was a large, dominant man who stood at 6 foot 6 and weight 230 pounds. He was a shell of himself at the end of his life. He needed help to perform the simplest of tasks. His booming voice - which you could hear for blocks - became a whimper.

Mavis seemed unable to speak. When the nurses came around to check her observations and monitor her she seemed to understand what they were saying. She communicated with a weak nod or lifted a finger in an attempt to point. I had never seen the nurses that tended to Mavis either. There were staff shortages, but to hire three new nurses that only tended to one patient seemed unusual. Often I tried to make small talk with them and they ignored my friendly banter so I gave up. The two other male patients in the ward gave me strange looks when this happened so I presumed that they also found it unusual.

Mavis had large hazel eyes. Either that or her sunken cheeks and bulging eye sockets made them appear that way - it was hard to tell. When she looked at me, I noticed that her pupils were small. It was like someone had placed a small dot on her eyes with a fine tipped pen. Whenever the curtain around her bed opened, she was looking. Not out the window, where she was next to, and not at any of the other two patients opposite her, but at me, ALWAYS at me. I tried to engage with her but there was nothing, just the staring. Maybe Mavis was only comfortable lying on her left side? Was she staring or was I paranoid? At least when she slept I got some relief from the uncomfortable feelings - or that’s what I thought. 2 nights ago I woke to a piercing scream. The kind that wakes you with heightened senses even when you’re in a deep sleep. “Jerrrrrry, Jerrrrrrry”. Jesus. How did Mavis know my name? “Jerry Dawson! Leave here now!” “Jerry Dawson. I am here”. I wanted to jump out of bed and shake her but after my back operation, it was painful enough to sit up. What the hell was happening? How could this woman talk? How did she know my full name and why was she telling me to leave?