Further Chronicles with Dr Divo (Part 4)

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.

"Hello? Good morning," came Dr Divo's voice as only his head peeked behind the curtains.

"Didn't you just tuck me in five minutes ago?" I replied sarcastically, still lying in bed, face turned to the side, staring at the sky outside.

It was still pitch dark—the sun hadn't considered rising yet. Why was he here so early today? I'd never know. Asking wasn't in my nature.

Dr Divo had a rule: never wake a patient who was still sleeping. He genuinely believed rest was the best medicine. So, as always, he hadn't let the nurse turn on the lights until he confirmed I was awake.

"Are you sure you're up? I can come back later," he offered.

If I wasn't before, I definitely was now.

"I'm awake. Go ahead, turn on the lights," I grumbled.

"Are you sure? You're still in bed."

"Where else am I supposed to go? What else is there to do?"

As usual, the nurses had woken me in the early hours to check my vitals. I then heard a quiet commotion on Fin's side of the room—she was finally getting transferred to a single room. I was happy for her. She had been up all night, frequently calling the nurses for painkiller jabs, and was mortified that she might have disturbed my sleep. I was more surprised by the timing of the move—who transfers patients at such ungodly hours?

"I'm still waiting for your UCS test results," said Dr Divo. Then, turning to the nurse, he added, "Can you please trace it for me?" Off she went toward the nurses' station.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm eating, if that's what you want to know," I said.

"Good."

"Kid's meal," I added

He scowled.

"If you don't eat properly, I'll have you on 24-hour drips," he threatened.

"Does that mean I don't have to eat? Oh, absolutely, sign me up!" I answered, a little too cheerfully.

His scowl deepened, but it had lost its bite. I was too tired to be intimidated. After everything, I was just done. If my appetite had decided to pack up and leave, maybe a round-the-clock IV wasn't the worst idea after all.

"How's your line?"

"Working great. Thanks to your clever little trick, I've had uninterrupted sleep, no pain, no discomfort."

He smirked. For now, it was a small victory for both of us.

I finally asked the question that had been gnawing at me, "How much longer do I need to be here? I'm bored out of my skull."

"You could write another book," he said, barely looking up from my file.

"I am writing another book," I replied.

"Please don't tell me it's a sequel to this episode!"

"God, no. I'm so done with this chapter of my life. You better make sure I don't have to write a sequel."

He finally looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "Then what is your new book about?"

"A friend approached me to write and illustrate a children's book."

He blinked. "Ah! You're going the celebrity route."

"Celebrity route?" I scoffed. "I'm not even a D-lister."

"Isn't that what celebrities do nowadays? Launch a children's book series? All that 'inspire the next generation' stuff."

"Well, this wasn't a PR move. A childhood friend remembered that I used to love drawing, and apparently, I'm pretty good at it. He pitched a whole series of picture books to encourage animal adoption."

His face softened. "That's a wonderful idea. More people should adopt. Though," he added, with a knowing look, "it's not always easy, is it?"

He should know. He had an adopted pet at home.

"Tell me about it. I've got a psycho bitch at home."

He choked on a laugh. "You do? That's kind of you."

"It was one of those situations, you know the kind, where if I didn't take her, she probably wouldn't have made it."

He nodded. "Those are the ones who become the fiercest loyalists, you know."

"Oh, she's loyal, all right. Loyal to her mood swings. One minute she's wagging, the next she's channelling a demon. But she's mine."

"She sounds delightful. And she's the inspiration for your children's book, I assume?"

"Yes."

"I'd read it."

"You'll get a signed copy," I promised, "if I ever get discharged."

He flipped a few pages in my file and muttered, "At this rate, maybe I will get to read it before you leave."

"I'll add a character based on you. The naggy but well-meaning vet who threatens his patients with 24-hour drips."

"Make me handsome." "But you are handsome. I'll have to exaggerate other attributes, though."

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

At least the boredom was slightly less suffocating.

"What are the next steps?" I asked, trying to sound casual but failing to mask the urgency in my voice.

Dr Divo stood, stretched his back like a grumpy cat, and glanced at the nurse who had just returned from the nurses' station. No test results. I expected him to voice his disgruntlement, because it was unlike the lab to delay, yet he didn't. Where was his impatience when I needed it?

"So, I just... wait?"

"For now. Once we have your test results, if things look better, we can start scaling back your medication. I'll come back later to see you."

"Can't wait."

He paused at the doorway, turned around, and added with mock gravity, "Eat something. Anything. Or I will start prescribing you something that will, very likely, taste like regret."

"Yes, sir!" I saluted him weakly.

And with a swish of the curtain and retreating footsteps, he vanished into the hallway like a man with far too many patients and not enough hours—leaving behind the faint smell of his perfume and sass.

The day dragged on like a stubborn, half-awake sloth.

The room, now silent without Fin, felt oddly spacious and empty. The nurses came and went with the usual routine: temperature check, blood pressure, IV medication, a jab or two. Nothing dramatic. Nothing new.

I attempted to read, but my eyes kept slipping off the page. Even my Kindle, my loyal companion, seemed uninspired—every paragraph felt like a filler, every sentence too long. I shifted in bed, fluffed the pillow, moved my blanket, sighed a dozen times, then repeated the cycle. Still bored.

Lunch came. I poked at it with the plastic fork, sighed again, and gave up.

The ward was quiet. Occasionally, I'd hear a muffled conversation or a trolley being wheeled past my door, its squeaky wheel screaming for WD-40. The storm from the night before had passed, leaving behind a grey sky that matched my mood.

Time seemed to crawl. I checked my phone at least five times an hour. No new messages. I opened apps, closed them, opened them again, as if something exciting might magically appear the second time around.

As the quiet stretched deeper into the afternoon, the boredom gave way to something heavier, something lonelier.

I found myself staring out the window, at the slow-moving clouds, and thought about all the people I missed—some still alive, some long gone. The hospital bed felt like a raft adrift in the middle of nowhere, and all I had for company were memories.

Some came gently, like soothing voices—my late godfather, who used to encourage me with his enthusiasm and innovative ideas. His voice echoed in my mind, calling me by that pet name only he ever used. Others came with a sting—old relationships, not because of a fight, but simply because life pulled us in opposite directions. And then there were those I had pushed away, conversations I should have had, words I should have said but never did. Regret settled in my chest like a dull ache.

And with that ache came an idea.

What if I wrote a book about it?

Not another memoir—not something linear and orderly. But a collection. A patchwork of thoughts. Vignettes and poetic snippets, each one standing alone like a whisper in the dark. Little paragraphs of longing, of missing someone, of remembering, of not knowing what happened to them, of imagining what I would say if I saw them again. Pages dedicated to love, to estrangement, to absence, to the weight of silence, to what will never be.

I could weave in the stories others had shared with me, too. I remembered someone telling me once about the one who got away—how he still had her coffee mug tucked in a drawer, unable to throw it out. Another friend kept the voicemail of her mother wishing her happy birthday, long after her mother had passed.

I could write about all of it.

Grief.

Longing.

Remembering.

Yes, I thought. I could write that. I should write that.

I reached for my phone and opened the Notes app. Tapped out a rough title: I Miss You.

And I kept typing.

When Dr Divo finally swung by in the evening, I was nearly vibrating with impatience. The boredom had curdled into restlessness. I needed to be out. I had things to do. Ideas to start, stories to write, a life to return to.

He barely stepped past the threshold when I launched into my plea—though I tried to keep my tone casual, nonchalant.

"So... can I go home soon?"

He gave me that look—the kind he reserved for patients who thought they knew better.

"I know I'm not well well," I added quickly, before he could say anything, "but we've been through this before."

He nodded thoughtfully, flipping open my file. "Yes, we have." I opened my mouth to say more, but he raised a hand—calm, assured, the way only a man with decades of dealing with stubborn patients could manage.

"Your UCS results came in," he said, scanning the papers. "Negative. How are you feeling?"

"Splendid, with a dash of nausea. No more fever. No more pain," I reported dryly.

"That's thanks to the paracetamol drip you're still on," he pointed out.

"Then remove it," I said, half-challenging, half-pleading.

"Yes, I'm going to switch all your IV meds to oral and observe you for at least 24 hours. If the fever and pain don't return, then we can talk."

Ugh. Talk. It sounded suspiciously like the cousin of maybe.

I raised my arm, showing him the IV site. The skin around it was starting to itch and swell.

"Do we still need this?" I asked, hoping it was time to be rid of the pesky plastic pipe.

"We can remove it," he said, and without missing a beat, came to my side to examine my arm. "Let me do it for you."

With uncharacteristic gentleness—contrasting his usual drill-sergeant demeanour—he began peeling back the adhesive tapes. He placed a cotton swab over the site and pressed lightly with his fingers.

"Take a deep breath for me," he instructed, and in one swift, smooth motion, he slipped the cannula out.

He kept his hand firmly in place to prevent another bloodbath, waiting patiently as the nurse fumbled to find a bandage. For a moment, our hands were locked together—not in some symbolic gesture, but in that odd, clinical intimacy shared only between doctor and patient. Still, I felt it: relief, release, gratitude.

"Thank you," I murmured, genuinely.

Despite often playing the role of an exasperated prison warden, Dr Divo had consistently gone out of his way to ensure I was comfortable, heard, and healing. For that, I was truly thankful.

After he left, I was surprised by the arrival of a new roommate. The curtain stayed drawn between us, and I only caught a glimpse of her silhouette. She sounded young, with a clear voice and a casual way of speaking. No doctors came to see her, but that was to be expected—it was already quite late.

Still, I could hear her rustling through packets of crisps in the dark. Quite a few packets, actually. There was a low, continuous crunching sound every now and then, like an owl chewing through midnight snacks.

I couldn't help but smirk. Maybe I should get myself some junk food too. Who knows—maybe that would tempt my elusive appetite back.

The ward was quiet again. My new roommate was still rustling about on her side of the curtain—one final crinkle of a chip packet before silence returned. I settled under the blanket, warm and cocooned, my arm finally free of lines and tape.

For now, I had my peace, my pillow, and the tentative hope that tomorrow might bring better news—and a better appetite.