Further Chronicles with Dr Divo (Part 1)

If you've read my book, Take a Deep Breath for Me, you will want to read this sequel. One moment I was minding my own business (and pain), the next I was boarding a flight with a low-grade fever and questionable judgement. What followed was a six-day stay in the land of fluorescent lights, horrifying cannulas, and IV drips that seemed to multiply like rabbits. Through it all, Dr Divo—unbothered, unhurried, and probably regretting ever taking me on—remains the lone voice of calm in this fluorescent purgatory.

The pain came before anything else—dull, familiar, and insistent. I knew what it was before the fever even started. There wasn't time to dwell on it. I had a flight to catch, I was calmer because I was going home, and I told myself I'd deal with everything when I landed. The journey home was long and uncomfortable. The fever simmered throughout, making the hours in the air feel heavier than they already were. I tried to shift in my seat to rest, but nothing helped. Every jolt of turbulence seemed to jostle something inside me. I kept my head down and waited for it to be over.

The moment I landed, I did the only thing that made sense—I texted Dr Divo.

He didn't reply with a polite suggestion. He sent a command, "Go straight to A&E."

There was no room for debate. The idea of travelling 200 km home only to be sent back again made no sense.

By the time I reached the hospital, it was 9.00 p.m. It wasn't crowded, but as expected, there was still a wait. I kept mostly quiet, conserving my energy, trying not to let the pain get ahead of me, and was silently grateful that I was not a trauma patient who needed immediate attention. Eventually, I was called into the trauma bay.

The doctor who attended to me was young—young enough that she could've been my child. She was pleasant enough but overly keen, and quite fond of using complex medical terms, as if she were trying to impress me with her vocabulary rather than speaking to a patient. I let her go on. I'd heard, read and understood all of it, and I was too tired to correct or steer her. I let her have her moment.

I mentioned that I was under Dr Divo's care, and she immediately tried calling him on her mobile. He didn't answer, which didn't surprise me. Months ago, Dr Divo and I had a casual chat about managing constant unnecessary alerts and interruptions to his rest. I'd suggested that he set firmer boundaries with his phone—allowing him to be reached only by proper channels—for his own well-being. I never knew if he took that advice, but if he had, I wouldn't have blamed him. There was a fine line between being approachable and being hounded.

She tried again, this time through the hospital operator. He picked up immediately. He'd clearly been expecting the call. The tone shifted. She didn't speak much after that—just listened and took notes. He gave her a clear set of instructions for my care, and that was that. There was no circumstance under which I was to be allowed home tonight.

I was a little annoyed, yet there was a strange comfort in knowing he was still keeping an eye out for me, even from home. I was a little more at ease now that a plan was in motion.

After the scans and tests were done, I lay back on the gurney, waiting. No one came to update me on what would happen in the next few hours. Although this was not my first admission, I was clueless about when I would get to a room. The hours passed slowly, with no clear direction—just the low buzz of the hospital around me, elderly patients moaning, toddlers screaming, and the weight of fatigue setting in.

It wasn't until 2.00 a.m. that I was finally shown to a room. By then, I was beyond tired. The IV drips had taken the edge off the pain, enough to let my body relax just a little, but not enough to erase it entirely. My mind was foggy, my limbs heavy. It felt like I had travelled through too many hours, too many waiting rooms, too many unknowns.

Still, I was in bed now. And for the first time that day, I could close my eyes without needing to stay alert.