Further Chronicles with Dr Divo (Part 5)

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.

At 5.00 a.m., my new roommate's urologist marched in as if he had just been knighted. What an ungodly hour!

"Good morning, madam!" he boomed, like a palace guard reporting for duty.

Did these people ever sleep?

"We found nothing on your CT scan," he declared, with the same gravity as someone announcing the King's itinerary.

What? Another vague case?

From what I'd pieced together from her conversation with her family the night before, she had been admitted due to intense, piercing back pain.

"No kidney stone?" she asked, her voice laced with both hope and frustration.

"Not at all. So I can only deduce that you're just having a very bad muscle pain."

And just like that, he vanished as quickly as he'd appeared. I lay there, staring into the darkness, thinking about the strange culture of pre-dawn medicine. Were they trying to cure us—or ambush us into submission?

Eventually, my own doctor arrived.

Dr Divo swept into the room with his usual morning energy. Spotting the bandages he applied yesterday still clinging to my arms, he made a beeline for my bedside.

"You don't need these anymore," he said, lifting my arm and peeling them off with his signature no-nonsense efficiency.

"Except for one low-grade temperature spike last night, you're doing well," he added, scanning my chart.

I said nothing. I just looked at him, blinking slowly like a cartoon deer. (Do deers blink?) If I stayed quiet, maybe he'd reward me with good news. A discharge, perhaps?

"You're unusually quiet this morning. Is something wrong?" he asked, not missing a beat. He was always very perceptive of my mood.

"Not at all," I replied. "I'm just letting you have your dramatic moment."

He rolled his eyes. "Any pain?"

"Not unless you've got something for a stiff neck."

"What's going on with your neck? Do we need to send you to the orthopaedic surgeon?"

"Absolutely not. Why must everything be so extra for me? It's just a stiff neck—I don't need surgery. I just need a Hilton pillow."

"They're not even the best, you know. There are better ones."

"I wouldn't know. Unlike you, I don't get many opportunities to sleep on luxurious pillows. This thing here is a flattened cotton ball."

"Flat pillows are better for your neck. I prefer them. I sleep better."

"I don't. I sleep on my side."

I paused. I realised, discussing sleep preferences with one's doctor at dawn—my hair dishevelled, his voice a loud whisper, both of us wrapped in semi-darkness—it all felt dangerously... intimate.

I cleared my throat and decided to redirect our conversation.

All my drips had finally been removed. I was now on oral medication, which felt like a minor promotion. The nausea still lurked in the shadows, but it no longer held me hostage. I had fully committed to the toddler diet—juice boxes, mini lasagnas, crustless sandwiches. My inner five-year-old was thriving, even if my adult body remained unimpressed.

But the question loomed: Would I be discharged today?

With Dr Divo, you could never tell.

When he finally came by again later that day, I was outside the room, pacing the corridor with my phone pressed to my ear, catching up on neglected work matters. The world had moved on without me, but it still expected me to catch on when I returned.

Not wanting to disturb my roommate's rest, I always took my calls outside. Plus, walking made me feel more human. It also happened to be excellent timing—because just as I was wrapping up, I spotted Dr Divo striding down the hallway toward me.

He didn't say anything at first, but I saw the unmistakable flicker of a smirk.

"How are you feeling this afternoon?" he asked, half-smirking.

"After what you wanted to subject me to this morning, I'm not answering this question anymore," I said warily, falling into step beside him as we walked toward my room.

"Fine," he replied, too casually. "I'll just keep you here until you do."

"You're a bully."

"And you're not even trying to hide how well you're doing. Talking, walking, running the country from your phone..."

"I'm still a patient. I can't run the country until I'm out of here."

He chuckled as we reached my room and paused at the door. For a moment, I hoped—just hoped—he'd say the magic words, You're good to go.

Instead, he turned to me with a vague, clinical nod. "You had a temperature spike. Let's just see how you do by tomorrow."

I was aghast!

His demeanour softened. He stepped closer, his voice lowering just enough to signal a shift from doctor to human.

"Do you want to go home now?" he asked gently.

I turned toward the window, watching the sun bleed into the horizon, painting the sky with quiet resignation. A lot of mathematics went on in my head. If he signs me out now, by the time I reach home, it will be past midnight.

"It makes no difference now, does it?" My voice was tired, a little frayed at the edges—part giving up, part blaming him, even though I knew it wasn't fair.

"Exactly," he said, unoffended. "Stay one more night. We will talk about your discharge tomorrow. No more IV meds, only oral antibiotics. Paracetamol if you absolutely need it."

Not long after, my roommate's side of the room turned into a reunion party. There was a full-blown conflagration of visitors—laughing, chatting, clinking drink bottles and offering comfort food. I couldn't help but think that, for someone with just muscle pain, she was getting quite the royal treatment. Then again, it might have been her first time admitted to a hospital. That kind of fear draws people close.

When the last of her visitors left and the room fell into quiet again, she walked over to my side.

"Hi, I'm Jen. How are you? Are you better?" she asked, smiling kindly.

"I am, actually. I thought I was going home today, but as you've already heard, that's not happening."

She nodded sympathetically before retreating behind her curtain. It was a brief moment, but a nice one.

In all my twelve previous hospital stays, half of them in shared rooms, I had never once tried to make conversation with the person beside me. I always kept to myself. I never assumed anyone wanted to talk, because I didn't. But here I was, this time, with not one, but two roommates—both of whom had made the first move. It wasn't life-changing. But it was... different. And quietly meaningful.

As I lay in bed this evening, I couldn't read. A dull headache was beginning to form, spreading behind my eyes like a fog. I didn't feel good. I was on the brink of asking for Paracetamol when I paused. If I asked for it now, Dr Divo would claim a fever could be masked by it. I knew how his mind worked. So I waited. In pain.

I wasn't someone prone to headaches. But I had likely overdone it—too many days cooped up indoors, too many hours reading in odd positions, twisting my neck and craning my eyes in angles no spine or retina was designed for.

What I needed was to have my temperature taken—by the book, during the nurse's late-night round—so it could be documented: No fever.

By midnight, the nurse finally came in. She checked my vitals, recorded the numbers. No fever. Only then did I demand the Paracetamol.

The room had quieted. No more visitors. No more doctors. Just the hum of the air conditioner, the occasional clink of a trolley wheel outside the door, and the distant shuffle of nurses doing rounds.

I lay in bed, finally easing into a kind of uneasy stillness. The Paracetamol had dulled the edge of my headache, but my mind remained wide awake—hovering somewhere between frustration and resignation. This hospital stay, which began in urgency, was now dragging on into a kind of boredom. Not sick enough to warrant concern. Not well enough to be released. Still stuck.

And yet, oddly, I wasn't anxious. I wasn't angry, not really. All of this—this limbo, this waiting, this slow and stubborn recovery—was only bearable because of Dr Divo. His care, his presence, his maddening but unwavering attention. He was the one person in this sterile, uncertain world whom I trusted completely. That trust had carried me through much worse. It would carry me through this, too.