1 February 2007
I sit here, in a friend’s flat, where I am convalescing. I have just had a cup of coffee. Miles Davis on the stereo.
I remember lying in the holding ward, drifting off to sleep, waking, then leaning over the edge of the bed to see what of my belongings are discernible in the plastic bag lying in the wire basket underneath the bed. The green shirt I was wearing, tan leather sandals, a red bag from the Winternachten festival – it contains my toothbrush and toothpaste. Was it then that I considered the options if I were to walk out of the hospital? (click title for more)
I was anxious. Not quite sure why I was there: did I faint? Stroke? What? Occasionally, I would see a doctor, but I knew it would be impertinent to call out to the doctor and ask him what the fuck was going on. I lunge over the edge of the bed again, manage to find my folder. Much of it doesn’t make sense, of course, but I see the word ‘Amnesia’ somewhere. Amnesia… I don’t remember. I suddenly feel feeble and lie down.
Somewhere, sometime, someone lowers the head-side of the bed. Thank god. I drift off to sleep.
I wake and another friend is standing next to the bed. She says I have had amnesia but that I will be okay. Everything will be okay, she says. I remember asking her some questions: When was the trip to Blombos? Why am I here? How did I get here?
Now I cannot remember whether she visits when I am still in the trauma ward, or once I am already in the holding ward. The previous night or the morning?