Happy hours in hospital

Room service was fast, the coffee mostly good even if served in paper cups, as for the frequent orders of doughnuts and angels wings, croissants and sandwiches, housekeeping was forever removing the crumbs and detritus before the next round of guests crowded the room with a view. Because he'd never intended to check-in, my uncle hadn't told too many people about his arrival in the hospital, so we'd been his only visitors on day one. By day two, his wife had broadcast a status update on Facebook, so the numbers swelled alarmingly, 107 at last count, which was a lot for a deluxe room with an occupancy of one. On day three, the floor guard was forced to complain that the file outside resembled an interview queue that could cost him his job. Every time there was a knock on the door, my aunt would herd visitors into the bathroom "for just a moment, sorry" before letting in the offending staff member. A nurse walking in unannounced found the room as crowded as a bar at happy hour. "One attendant only," she declared, but with the patient feigning sleep, and no one willing to listen to her admonitions, she walked out frustrated.
 

The heart procedure had left my uncle tired, but what's an operation without its prequel? To market the moment needed an audience, for which my aunt used as many disingenuous ways as she could invent - she was, after all, a lawyer. She harangued the lift guard, she inveigled the reception assistant, she used, in turn, haughtiness, irritation, anger and helplessness, till she discovered the most perfect system of all. "Take the lift to the doctor's chambers," she advised newbie visitors, since patients and their families were allowed up for an emergency consultation with or without an appointment. From there, in the absence of any more security attendants, they could simply exchange lifts to come carousing to my uncle's room where he lay not so much recuperating as wound-up.

His meals were supplied by the hospital, but everyone wanted a taste of it so they could pass judgement on its flavour and nutritive quality, leaving him little choice but to order from the fast-food eateries on the ground floor, just the kind of fried stuff that had been responsible for his tryst with the operation theatre in the first place. He lay looking wan while friends and family members exchanged high-fives over his bed. A nap any time during the day was impossible - there was too much conversation, too many visitors, too little quiet.

Someone commented that he needed cheering up, so an iPad was pulled out, someone else smuggled in speakers from the car, and soon a party was underway. I'm not sure but surely Sharmaji was swigging from a hipflask, and had Sarla added some whisky to her coffee? After the hospital authorities had checked there were no miscreants past visiting hours - at that point concealed in the bathroom - they resurfaced to claim the sofa and armchair. Mattresses appeared mysteriously and were spread on the carpet. It seemed like a village had taken root in the room.

On his last morning, various nurses came in to advise my uncle on his medication, fix his physiotherapist appointments, and guide him regarding his diet. Finally, it was time for his surgeon who asked him if there was anything he required. "Yes, doctor," asked my uncle, "what will it take for me to spend one last day alone in the intensive care unit?"