After my cardiovascular surgery
It was a beautiful portrait inside my mind, a blue Monet through which I crept effortlessly, neither cold nor warm, neither here nor there.
Then, from a distance, a scream crept into my unconscious, my drug-induced sleep.
First I thought it was the thing of nightmares, but slowly the phrase kept repeating itself: I WANT TO GET OUTTA HERE! OUTTA HERE! OUTTA HERE!
Louder, the same phrase.
OUTTA HERE! OUTTA HERE!
When I was fully awake it was still there, only louder yet.
I WANT TO GET OUTTA HERE! OUTTA HERE! OUTTA HERE!
It was the unseen screaming pirate in next ward (think Robert Newton’s version of Long John Silver, an exaggerated West Country accent, loud and brash).
He had a specific demand, put simply, and the point of which was obvious.
It got me thinking – this is the day the surgeon said I should be going home. Maybe I would join the pirate’s lonely soliloquy if I were here the same time tomorrow.