I’ve spent two times two weeks at the hospital this year. I’m going to talk about the second time, because it was different. I’m going to talk about the people i’ve met, how i’ve made it through.
When I arrived here, I had very few memories. The drugs I’d taken in large quantities had really finished me off. I was in a second state, half asleep and as if empty. I was taken back to the room, a double room with no neighbours. I was given a bottle of water and told that the tap water was not drinkable. I settled in with my few belongings, as the emergency services hadn’t wanted me to bring my bag of clothes.
On the first day, I ran out of cigarettes. I was hoping for charity from the residents. I got one. Later that day I begged for another, but this time I only received refusals. From five people. One with an unopened parcel in her hands. Personally, I’ve never refused to give out cigarettes. I know that feeling of lack and I refuse to let others feel it, because it hurts and sometimes even saddens me.
Later that day, Mrs P. approached me in the TV room to hand me a cigarette. She’d used a cardboard roll instead of a filter, and I nearly choked on it, but the intention was good and I was touched. After that I regularly offered her cigarettes.
I met Christiane here. She’s a grand mother, all smiles, grey hair, and still radiant despite it all. I was waiting for the nurse in the corridor, sitting alone on the floor, when she came up to me. I’d just finished reading “Beauty and the Beast”, so I got up to talk to her. She asked me if I wouldn’t mind staying with her. I asked her what her first name was and how long she’d been there. She asked me if I was reading, I said yes and she quickly went to her room. When she came back she had a Pierre Bellemare book in her hands for me. Just for me. To keep me occupied. I was so touched by the attention that it almost brought tears to my eyes. She seemed so kind but so lost. Later I asked her if she was all right. She started to cry, she’d had a row with her daughter. I felt sorry for her and didn’t know what to say, so I kept quiet.
Today I joined Christiane in the upstairs TV room. She was sitting alone watching the adverts. I sat down next to her and after asking her how she was, I could feel the tears welling up inside her. She told me that things were still not going well with her daughter. I took her hand and she smiled at me. The conversation flowed naturally and somehow we ended up talking about her first love. She corresponded with an Algerian, but never heard from him again after 1960. On searching, she found that her file had been classified by the CIA. She had searched the internet for words about the war, but had never found the man she loved so much. Over the course of our conversation, she told me that she had lost her father to cancer when she was 15. I confided in her that I had also lost my mother to cancer when I was 16. She was still smiling, but with a melancholy smile. We’d talk like that for half an hour or more, until I had my appointment with the doctor.
Every day and every night we heard shrill screams coming from room 16, Laurent’s room. He was tied up and the carers regularly came to feed him. He would scream “I’m thirsty” or “Leave me alone”, or screams without any words. Every time he screamed, it broke my heart.
Christiane is leaving tomorrow. I slipped her a little letter with my phone number in the book she lent me. She said she’d be at mass on Sunday, so I wrote it down to try and be there to see her again. She was so sweet when she saw my note, without even reading it, she took me in her arms and kissed my cheek with love. I felt loved. Within minutes of giving her the note she wrote me a long text wishing me all the best. I love her so much. Just a few days with her and I felt alive again. She gave me hope. She told me all about her love affairs when she was young, and how it was never true love with her current husband. It broke my heart, but I was happy that she had been able to start a family, even if she was currently quarrelling with her daughter. In my letter I told her that everything would work out, that time would take care of things. I’m a firm believer in that. I believe in her.
At the table, I almost always sat with Eléonore at a table for two. Sometimes a gentleman was quicker than me and took my place. Éléonore was kind enough to prepare my cutlery for me sometimes, before I arrived. She didn’t eat much, but we talked a bit about her piercings. She had her left nostril pierced like me.
Today they brought Laurent outside on a wheelchair. It was the first time I’d seen him outside. I’d only seen him in between passing by his open door a few times. They had removed the restraints from his wrists and ankles and put him in a wheelchair. He was still screaming, usually “no”. He had just screamed when he threw a teaspoon, and the nurses immediately went to work to “put him back in place”. He was then spoon-fed. I noticed that the nurses were on first-name terms with him. They all spoke to him in a very motherly way, as if he were a child. The carers spoke to him in loud shouts, as if he were deaf.
Among the people there was Mamadou. He often came to sit with me in the TV room. He seemed completely zombified by his treatment, his head kept falling off and his eyes closed almost automatically. I felt sorry for him. The treatment was changed and he seemed more awake afterwards.
There’s a new girl. I see her sitting opposite the lady who had curtly refused me a cigarette. She asked for her first name but I could see immediately that she was dissociating. She didn’t answer and just stared into space.
Since yesterday I’ve been watching Eléonore smoke cigarettes from her electronic cigarette. She always asks me for a lighter because she doesn’t have one. She rolls cigarettes particularly badly, so I offered to teach her. We’ll do it tomorrow. I can’t wait to share my little smoking knowledge, even though it’s probably the worst kind of knowledge.
As I passed in the corridor, Laurent tried to kick me, which I only just dodged. He was the old man who was always shouting. Today he was shouting “I want a cigarette”. I reluctantly reported the man’s violent outbursts to the carers, but I couldn’t let him be violent like that.
I went to mass today. We sang, I didn’t know the tune so I listened attentively before joining in. The chaplain kept shushing a lady who was reciting the prayer at inappropriate times, very loudly.
I took a photo with Christiane, whom I will cherish forever.
This evening I saw a boy light his cigarette lighter near the barbecue grill where the cigarette butts were. Later I bumped into him again and he asked me for a cigarette. I’d barely had time to light it before I handed it to him. He probably needed it more than I did. His name was Yaya and he gave me a check to introduce himself. He was here for drugs. And it showed. He was all slowed down, stammered a lot and sometimes his speech was simply incomprehensible. I went back up to the room to roll another cigarette.
And then there’s Yaya. He’s a guy who fell into drugs 21 years ago. He took everything. He was completely devastated, his voice was nothing but a trembling sometimes impossible to distinguish, so much so that I didn’t dare ask him to repeat himself and I shook my head in approval or understanding. He had been in prison several times for carrying a weapon, and I couldn’t understand the rest. Seeing me alone at the table he asked me if he could sit with me. I agreed, of course, and we started talking.
After eating, we went out into the courtyard to have a smoke. He asked me to listen to his music and then he asked me to play his music for him. Then he gave me a pendant and asked me to pray for his dead brother. He told me that I was the seventh person authorised to do so. I was touched. I offered him a second cigarette.
Then I had to wait in the corridor for the doctor. First I sat down in the TV room to recharge my phone. The wait was interminable.
Last night when I went out for my last cigarette of the day, Camille was there. She was talking to me for the first time, asking my age and so on. This morning I bumped into her again and said hello, which went unanswered.
On my way to smoke my cigarette I bumped into Eléonore. She asked me if I was all right and I told her I’d be going out tomorrow. I asked her again when she was going out and she started to cry. Without hesitation I gave her a hug, because that’s what people are supposed to do i guess. I suggested we exchange contacts and she added her number to my phone. I told her that she was beautiful, young and above all strong, that it would be all right. She had really touched me and made me sad. She seemed so worn out by the drugs and i never saw her smile.
About me… well, they put me on even more drugs. To help me stay relaxed and sleep at night. The first week, i was alone in the room. But then, i got a roommate. She was snoring so much i started asking for more drugs to sleep more easily. I’ve seen the doctor only four times while i was there and the appointment was only lasting about five minutes. They didn’t really care for us, but the nurses did. One of them, Christophe, was always smiling and happy. He brought joy to the place.
There was one doctor that i didn’t like. I was sitting on the floor and he told me i couldn’t do that. I always had to wait to see him and there were no seats available so i just sat there because i couldn’t stay waiting standing still. He’s the one with whom i had 5min appointments.
Did it make me feel better? I don’t know. I’m currently addicted to xanax, i don’t think as much as i used to do because this drug is really slowing me down. Overall, i was suicidal and needed help, i got help and now i’m still here, thankfully.
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