Similar to cold showers, going to hospitals is always a last resort. I’d rather dig my own grave than trudge towards Mater or Aga khan. I’m the kind of guy who says they’re fine. I’ll look you straight on and lie through the lenses of my blood-red bulging eyes. Fam, my body might be as wrecked as a car rammed head-on by a train but I’d still insist I’m okay. Even cavemen rode out their ailments toxin by toxin. And this is before they discovered fire. Perhaps that is the reason I can’t date a doctor or a nurse. We’d be as incompatible as a kabambe trying to use a type C charger — musee it’s never going to happen!
You go in for a medical checkup. Random like buying a sweet caramel flavored cake from Artcafee in the middle of the night because your pocket is itching to burn. You know you’re fine. You exercise and eat healthily; okay “healthish”; okay you eat an apple once in a while. Sue me! I told you I lie. You even judge people who don’t work out or use an Uber to head towards a 10-minute walking destination. You are more sure you’re okay than you are of the sun setting. Even your mother has labeled you a vegan, but that must be embedded in her in one of those mummy cults (chamas) where children seemingly never eat enough.
Hospitals make you wait at the reception. You get to ponder on everything that might be wrong with you. Google doesn’t help. Everything you search seems awful. A headache might be meningitis. A stomach ache might be cancer. Gosh! You’re too young to have HPV or TB or whatever disease named after initials. You aren’t even 30! But life nowadays seems to have been bored with the old and decided to dip its claws to sweeter prey.
There is a tv set mounted playing a Nigerian movie. I’ve never understood the connection between Nigerian movies, hospitals, and maids. There is always demonic stuff happening. It doesn’t help that the receptionist would rather catch up on the office gossip than serve you. So you’re left there for longer than anticipated and start formulating theories like how the house help might have laced your food with this weird shit in the movie. Even worse, the wall is painted red, a sure sign that there’s danger looming which makes your antennae spin and increases your blood pressure. It’s a wonder the results always come out high — high on anxiety; the demon who loves you the most amongst your many issues.
Besides you, are two pregnant ladies. These Covid babies are coming in droves. Maybe they’re mad we led ourselves to a pandemic and had too much time on our hands to will them down to earth. Are they here to replace you? One in, one out?
I detest hospitals! The bills are served hot and heavy. When that pink laced sheet invoice is handed to you, your illness runs away. You even head towards the surgery hall instead of the exit and it’s not by mistake either. People survive with one kidney and so can you.