Isolation Room

Wheeled into a room, one window and an en suite. Refrigerator in the corner, standard bedside cabinet, the only thing that was standard in this room. Rising from the wheelchair to get into the bed took an exerted effort to transport the chest drain and pot plus ones own emaciated mass.

An urge to alleviate the pressure building on my bladder spurned me to look for avenues of urination. To my surprise I found an en suite bathroom. i didn’t question the door on my left on arrival, assuming it had an assortment of mops and paper towels etc. The wet room had a walk in shower and basin shrouded in fluorescent light coursing from two neon beams above.

Unshakable dread crept into my thoughts, skulking underneath the pleasantries and light heartedness. Air conditioning churning away with its monotonous drone. This is fucking quarantine.

I recall being woken up in a triage ward a few hours after my initial arrival. Shook awake by a doctor to be told, forewarned, that my odds of survival were 50/50 and I must stop abusing alcohol. Resentment burned in my heart.

I looked to the window to feel a breeze, hear a bird or an engine, to smell food cooking. Rivets. Cold steel window frame securely fitted to the wall ensured my fate, my impending doom, my existential reality, my vulnerability, my fear.

Published by From Wretched to Recovery

Writing about my experience of alcoholism and recovery from addiction. The aftermath, the lessons learnt, the wisdom acquired, healing through gratitude, compassion and forgiveness.

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