Man Of Few Words

Chapter 90

I'm in hospital now.

From now on, things are going to be different around here. By "around here", I mean here in this book, not here in this hospital. Things are going to be much the same in this hospital as they were before my arrival, I expect. People will come in, and some of them will go out again. The people who work here will do their best to hold back the tide of disease, injury, suffering and death, even though they know they can never really win.

Obviously quite a lot's happened in the time since I last wrote. How much time is that exactly? That's a very good question. I'm really not sure. I think it's been less than a week though. I think.

Today, I know, is Saturday. Does that help?

I have a feeling it does help somehow. And that it will help to mark the days of the week from here on in. Starting tomorrow, which is Sunday of course.

It'll help because I'm slowing down a lot. I think I'm probably only going to be able to write very little each day. I've really only just started today and I can feel my energy sapping away already, and there's a dull headache rising in the back of my skull and sending hauntingly melodic "I'm going to get you" messages to my eyes.

Can you tell that the drugs are better in here? They are.

I don't think I'm going to die in here. But I don't think I'm ever going to see my home again. Or anyone else's home.

That's really caught me out. For weeks and weeks I'd been writing about how my flat felt like a kind of pre-coffin and now, out of the blue, I've been permanently removed from it. I miss it so, so, so much.

I feel I should try and explain what's happened, but I'm not sure I can piece it together, and I'm not sure if it's worth telling you anything that isn't already obvious.

I had terminal cancer. I still do. Only it's worse now. Bad enough that I need the kind of treatment and care that I probably wouldn't be able to administer to myself at home, even if a doctor were insane enough to trust me to do so.

This is still me writing, by the way. Harriet... or Mat... someone brought me my laptop and I'm still well able to sit up and type. At least for short spells.

I've been told that I might very quickly get worse at this point. Although I might not. But yes, I've asked Harriet to contact an old colleague of mine, Jon Pound, to request his services. Of all the writers I know, I reckon he's the most likely to be able to ghost write as me. Jesus, the term "ghost writer" really takes on a lot of gravity in a situation like this. We haven't heard back from him yet, I don't think. But I reckon he'll do it. Mainly because I'm willing to pay and pay well. But he's a good guy. I hope he visits actually.

I have a lot more to say, but my eyes are really sore now, and I can't sit up any longer than this. I'll continue tomorrow, under "Sunday".