Further Chronicles with Dr Divo (Part 3)

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.

Dr Divo's weekday mornings followed a pattern: rounds and surgeries at the other hospital, then a tactical sweep through the wards in this hospital before he started his clinic. He appeared at my bedside, crisp and caffeinated.

"You're not eating," he barked, eyes narrowing at my barely touched breakfast tray as if it had personally offended him.

"Nausea," I said simply, offering the most convenient excuse I had.

He scowled. "Do you want me to bring a lidi here, so we can compare who is fatter?"

Ah yes, the subtle art of motivational speaking, Dr Divo-style.

His obsession with my weight had always been oddly persistent. I hoped I hadn't given him the impression I was one of those people deliberately skipping meals for aesthetic reasons. I wasn't. I ate. I wasn't picky. But unlike some, I didn't hunt for taste or fuss over plating. Food, for me, was a transaction: fuel in, function out. If it was convenient and vaguely edible, I was fine.

But this wasn't about hospital food. This was about my stomach staging a rebellion.

"If you still don't eat, I'll get your husband here to force-feed you," he threatened, arms folded.

"Oh good," I deadpanned. "Nothing improves nausea like a man hovering over me with a spoon and the emotional weight of obligation."

He gave me a withering look, delivered another round of stern concern disguised as sarcasm, and then moved on to patients who, I hoped, were more cooperative and less snarky.

Shortly before lunch, hesitant footsteps shuffled closer to my side of the room. I looked up from my Kindle to find my roommate standing near the curtain, clutching her IV pole.

"Hi," she said quietly, "I'm Fin. I wonder if I can have a chat with you."

"Of course," I said, fumbling upright and gesturing vaguely toward the armchair at the foot of my bed. "Please, have a seat."

She sat, a little awkwardly. So did I. Two strangers, both in hospital casuals, both far from our respective comfort zones.

"If you don't mind," she began cautiously, "I'd like your opinion. I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear your conversations with your doctor. You seem very... experienced."

That was one way to put it. I nodded, managing a smile. "Of course. If I can help in any way, I'm happy to."

She exhaled, relieved. "I've been having this sharp, intense pain in my midriff. But after the CT scan, and two doctors—two!—neither of them can tell me what's wrong. The scan showed nothing of concern, the first doctor passed me to a second, and now I'm due to see a third tomorrow." Her voice grew tight with irritation, and rightfully so.

She needn't have explained it at all. Over the past two days, I had gathered enough just from listening to the muffled voices beyond the curtain. Poor Fin had been asking for painkiller jabs repeatedly. She had clearly reached the outer limits of her pain threshold—and her patience.

"Fin, I don't claim to be an expert," I began carefully, "but from experience, a lot of reading, and several educational chats with my own doctors, I've learned that not everything shows up on a CT scan. Especially when it comes to hollow organs, like the intestines or colon."

Fin leaned in, hanging onto every word.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop," I added, "but, well, curtains don't do much. From what I understand, you've got a sharp pain in your midriff, and you mentioned constipation. Has anyone suggested you see a gastroenterologist?"

"Yes," she nodded, "I've been referred. He's coming tomorrow."

Good. Although it baffled me that this hadn't happened sooner. Given her symptoms, that should've been the first call, not the third referral.

"I think you'll need an endoscopy and a colonoscopy," I said gently. "There might be an obstruction, or inflammation, or something else a scan wouldn't catch."

She blinked at me, her expression pensive, but with a glimmer of hope peeking through. I told her, briefly, about my own case—how in Chapter 5 we'd stumbled upon a shocking discovery, one that even Dr Divo, with his three-decade career, had never encountered before. Four years of CT scans hadn't uncovered it.

So no, she wasn't crazy, or dramatic, or imagining things. She was simply in that frustrating medical limbo so many of us fall into when our symptoms don't match our test results.

Fin nodded slowly, her shoulder finally relaxing. "Thank you," she said, voice softer. Just then, lunch was served. "I'd better let you have your lunch," she said before retreating to her bed.

The afternoon passed in the usual blur of institutional activity—nurses doing their rounds, trays clattering like cymbals, and me falling asleep and waking up with the Kindle on my face.

But as the day waned and the shadows grew long against the wall, one thing stood out: Dr Divo hadn't returned. He hadn't read my text either.

That was unlike him.

I was beginning to worry. However, being his patient, I was not in the position to hound him like an anxious parent or spouse. Whatever the case, I resigned myself to preparing for bed.

Then—because, of course, he would—Dr Divo appeared.

Just as I was climbing into bed, he swept in with his usual flair. He took my file from the nurse with practised nonchalance and plonked himself into the armchair at the foot of my bed.

"You're still here?" I asked, aghast. "Go home. Go to sleep. Clearly, you're exhausted."

He waved me off with the elegance of a sleep-deprived goose.

Then he started rubbing his eyes. Not the gentle kind of rub either—no, this was a violent, full-knuckle orbital assault.

"Stop it! Stop it!" I cried. "Don't rub your eyes like that! Your eyeballs are going to fall out of their sockets!"

He chuckled wearily but didn't stop. If anything, he switched hands and went at it with renewed vigour, like he was trying to polish his corneas.

Then, without missing a beat, he said, "So that I can better see you."

His eyes popped open and locked directly onto mine, unblinking and intense, like he was trying to hypnotise me. A stare-down commenced. I blinked first.

"Do you need eye drops?" I asked, ready to reach into my bag, fully prepared to administer them myself. But this time, my brain caught up with my hands. My common sense kicked in—along with a vivid mental image of the nurse's expression if I started cradling his face and poking at his eyeballs. I paused.

Without waiting for him to respond, I asked my unanswered question again, "What are you still doing here?"

"I just came out of surgery. And I wanted to check on you."

Touched as I was, I still gave him the disapproving stare, "You need rest."

"I'll rest when you stop getting admitted," he muttered.

That silenced me, for a full five seconds.

"I'm really not trying to make this a recurring hobby," I said.

"You're stable. Still nauseous?"

"Manageably."

"Appetite?"

"I looked at a biscuit. We did not connect emotionally."

He sighed.

"Have you had dinner?" I asked, knowing he had not.

"I'll grab something."

"You better. I worry about you. I really do. Take better care of yourself."

"I will. See you tomorrow."

"Good night."

"Good night."

As he vanished through the door, I nestled under the blanket, propped up my pillow, and resumed reading—until a sudden crash of wind and rain against the window jolted me.

[WhatsApp]

Me: A storm has started. Drive with care.

Dr Divo: I will, thank you.

And I continued reading. There was a peculiar kind of intimacy in reading while a storm raged just beyond the window—like the world was falling apart outside, but we carved out a little pocket of calm between the pages. The rhythmic drumming of rain and the occasional crack of thunder only made my little nook feel more cocooned.

But, about an hour later, my phone pinged—slicing through the moment like a pebble tossed into still water.

[WhatsApp]

Dr Divo: Only now leaving the hospital. The rain has stopped. Don't worry.

Me: You are still here! How many patients are there?

Dr Divo: 9

Me: And one of them is very annoying.

Dr Divo: Yes, she is.