Further Chronicles with Dr Divo (Part 6)

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.

I was awakened—again—by Jen's urologist. 5.00 a.m., on the dot. Did these people ever sleep?

"Good morning, madam!" he boomed, sounding like a palace guard on breakfast duty.

He was still checking in on her despite referring her to the orthopaedic team.

Dr Divo, mercifully, came by at a more civilised hour. I was convinced he'd have to let me go home today. So imagine my dismay when he said, quite casually, "Do you want me to observe you for another 24 hours?"

"Am I a culture on a petri dish? No! Why?"

"You're not well. And what's this about a headache? Do we want a brain scan?"

"No! No! No! No! No!" He always brought out the worst in me. "You have headaches too, don't you? It happens. You don't scan your own head because of them!"

"Why are you so eager to leave? Are you not comfortable here? Are the nurses bullying you? I've resolved your nausea, kept you pain-free, you're eating."

"Yes, you've taken extraordinary care of me. You've ensured I've endured the least discomfort possible, and the nurses have been wonderful—easily the best I've encountered. But I'm turning into a lunatic," my voice cracked a little as my eyes teared, but I quickly apologised, "I'm sorry. You're not supposed to see me like this." And I quickly dried my eyes with my blanket.

However, a not-so-sensitive Dr Divo did not hesitate to remind me, "It's quite all right. Over the years, I've seen you in worse," although he was cautious to lower his voice to a whisper.

"Yes," I agreed softly, "Yes, you did."

"If you're certain you're okay, then I'll discharge you."

Just like that. I was free to go.

Did I not argue hard enough yesterday?

"As usual," he continued, "please complete the remaining five days of oral antibiotics. I'll also prescribe this for you to bring home. Don't take it after 7.00 p.m."

"Why? Will I turn into a werewolf or something?"

"It will give you nightmares."

"I thought you were my nightmare?"

He gave me his signature scowl and scribbled in my file.

"Take care. Safe journey home. And don't forget, I'm just a text away."

With a warm wave, he was gone.

Jen was elated. She walked over right away. "So, you finally get to go home!"

"Yes! What about you? You're not staying for muscle pain, are you?"

"I still have two more physiotherapy sessions before they'll discharge me."

We chatted for a while. I wasn't in a hurry—discharge paperwork always took ages. Then, Jen had to leave for her physio. Shortly after, a text came in.

[WhatsApp]

Fin: Hi Siew, how are you? Just wanted to let you know I’ll be discharged today.

Me: That's great news, Fin! So am I. Finally, we're both going home.

Fin: Please keep in touch.

Me: Of course, technology is wonderful.

A name now lived in my phone, saved by hospital room and bed number. It was lovely hearing from her. Though she'd been moved to a single room, she'd visited me just yesterday. It was... nice. After our first chat, she'd insisted on having scopes done. Turned out I was right—there was an obstruction, some inflammation in the upper digestive tract. She was now on treatment. That made me happy. At least something was finally being done.

The excitement of going home gave me a sudden burst of energy. I was packing up when Jen returned from physio.

"All ready to go?" she asked.

"Just waiting on the meds.”

When my bill and medication were finally ready, I left. Yoda had insisted that he come to get me, but I decided to take the train. I figured, although I was not carsick, given my current condition, I'd prefer the train.

I reached home before midnight. Yoda took me out for supper—I was suddenly ravenous. It had to be the air. But just when I thought I'd left it all behind, I had a fever before bed. I wasn't anxious this time. I took the medication. I wasn't going to give Dr Divo the satisfaction of being right because I was stubborn.

When I woke up the next morning, I was not great, but home.

The fever lingered, mildly. Then, a message came in.

[DM]

Kyomi: Are you at the hospital?

Me: Your boss kept me prisoner for a whole week!

Kyomi: OMG

Me: I had to fight him to release me.

Kyomi: But you lost?

Me: I won. He let me go yesterday.

Kyomi: You know he's off today and tomorrow, right?

Me: So I never really won. He discharged me because he wouldn't be around.

Kyomi: LOL

Me: Your boss is evil.

Home.

At last.

Not entirely healed, not entirely well—but home nonetheless. The fever lingered, the appetite returned very slowly, and my sense of humour—worn thin by illness and fatigue—was slowly returning to its usual sass.

How surreal the past week had been. From nausea and IVs to unexpected friendships, and a doctor who alternated between being my tormentor and my guardian angel. If you've read this far, you've already met Jen, Fin, and the unforgettable Dr Divo. But you've only just scratched the surface.

This wasn't my first hospital stay, and I hope it will be my last. But every experience leaves a mark—and a story. Some stories are absurd. Some are tender. Some are soaked in fear, and others in unexpected laughter echoing through cold corridors.

And sometimes, in the stillness of long hospital afternoons, something beautiful stirs.

During this stay, as I sat restlessly waiting for discharge, surrounded by curtains and beeps, the seed of another book quietly took root. A collection of vignettes and poems about longing, about the ones we miss—both dead and alive. The unsaid things, the goodbyes that never came, the ache of memory. Inspired by my own past, and the stories of those I've met and lost. That seed has already started to sprout.

So in the end, I didn't leave empty-handed.

If you're curious about the moments that shaped this week, the scars I carried into that ward, and the people—like Yoda, Vano, Kyomi, and even Divo—who made me who I am, I invite you to read my book. It's all there: the backstory, the anxiety, the healing. The reason I fight so hard to leave every hospital bed. The reason I still smile when I say, I'm home.

Because home, no matter how battered I arrive, is always the final destination.