Naja Aidt - Baboon

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It was the penicillin. He was allergic to it. The doctor explained to him, "You had a violent allergic reaction. You got here just in time. We have your sister to thank for wasting no time in making that call!" The doctor smiled and patted his shoulder. But the next morning the results of the new blood test arrived, showing that it was clearly a case of resistant bacteria. He yelled at the staff and refused to wear the ridiculous robe, not to mention the underwear. He didn't like the food, he didn't like the smell, everything was disgusting. This place makes you sick, he raged. His room had small low windows. The hospital was built at a time when they all economized on glass. He couldn't stop thinking about this as he lay there. Every time he looked over at the small peepholes and out to the world, he thought about it. 1973. Maybe '75. The oil crisis. All they could think about was saving money on expensive materials like glass . It drove him crazy.

APRIL

He was sick. They sent him home. He came back. Very sick. New medicine. Home. Gorgeous let herself in and rustled about somewhere near him. Her cool hand against his warm skin. Back to the hospital. More tests, a biopsy, blood tests, urine tests. Pus began flowing from his ears, his eyes and nose were clogged and sticky with green gook, he felt nauseous all the time, and eventually got diarrhea, later, blood in the diarrhea. He watched the transparent tube where the sulfa drug went through in drips to his vein at the back of his hand three times a day. His uncle called and demanded to talk to the head doctor. This can't be true. There must be something you can do. There wasn't. "Yes, there is," said Charlotte. "We can hope and pray that you get better." He had no strength to either hope or pray. By this time, he felt like a slab of meat rapidly decaying. But also: It's not true . Denial. Aggression. Later, panic attacks and difficulty breathing. He changed from one medicine to another. And to different types of medicine. The infection spread. He was moved to his own room. He was delirious. Peter visited and took one look at him and cracked up laughing. And he laughed with him, as best as he could, almost grateful for his brother's laughter, his completely ordinary reaction, "Holy shit, you look awful!" But it got worse. And it went quickly. No strength left to sit up, push the call button, scratch his leg, hold a glass of water.

The doctor repeated what was already known,"Unfortunately the bacteria are in theory multi-resistant," and he sat down on the edge of the bed. "We've decided to move you to the General Hospital. I've already talked with them and they can take you as early as this evening." The doctor leaned forward and said confidentially, "I have to be honest with you. We can only hope for the best."

JUNE

Isn't it summer? He tries to wave hello. Charlotte smiles, but she doesn't know how to comfort him. She calls their mother even though that's the last thing he needs. Their mother is shocked by how much weight he's lost. She brings roast chicken and mashed potatoes and feeds him with a teaspoon. He throws it all up. He wants her to go. That anxious old mourner's mug. She cries into the mashed potatoes. He feels guilty. He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. He opens them a little, and now she's eating what's left of the food with the teaspoon right from the Tupperware thingy. Later, he actually does fall asleep. And there's a waterfall tumbling over rocks and a sound that's about to burst his head open. Isn't it summer now? Then he's on his knees on the floor in the little bathroom throwing up. He's in the infectious disease ward at the General Hospital. "This time you're staying," said the doctor. "Your immune system is burned out, you might say, and we'll do all we can, but no promises." He has fungus growing in his mouth, in his intestines, on his hands. He's lost almost all of his hair, and, in three months, he's lost fifty-five pounds. When Charlotte calls Stig, thinking he's asleep, he overhears her saying, "When I was here yesterday, two nurses helped him to the bathroom, they wanted to give him a bath. I'm standing in the doorway and he vomits this thin green fluid into the sink. Then I see diarrhea running down one of his thighs, and he passes out. Oh my god, Stig, I thought he'd fucking died, just like that, collapsed. But there was a pulse. They asked me to get help, and then three people lifted him up and carried him back to bed. It's so humiliating. You can smell him from far away. You've got to visit him."

He thinks about what he's touched. Did he touch the toilet? Did he touch the chair? Did he lean on the chair on his way to the sink? Did he touch some bacteria, perhaps some bacteria found its way into his body? He doesn't want Charlotte to get too close to him. He keeps asking her to wash her hands. She stops coming by so often, she has to take care of her shop, get ready for the sale, it's a busy time with the big summer sale. And, as she says, crying hysterically, "I've got to live my own life, don't I? I've got to look out for myself." It's something she's realized, she says, after thinking long and hard about it for almost three months. She gets loaded at Stine and Jakob's garden party. She sits on the lap of a young man and sings.

He doesn't notice that she stays away for long periods of time. There are visions and shadows and faces that come close and then disappear. There's nausea like a snarling dog pressing its wet fur against the inside of his esophagus. There's a constant whistling in the pipes or maybe from his body. They have grafted skin from his thigh to his buttock. He doesn't remember. Charlotte says, "They've done an excellent job," but he doesn't believe her. His mother talks to him with the same consoling, loving voice she had when he was a child. She keeps talking to him until he calms down, and he does calm down, listening to her voice, as if it came from above, as if it were flowing into the room like liquid or gas.

Finally, Stig comes to see him. He pushes the door open, and puts his hand to his mouth in shock, as if he's seen a ghost. Then he backs out. The door closes quietly. A little later he comes into the room and sits on the edge of a chair. He has a big bouquet of dark purple flowers on his lap. He whispers, "What have they done to you?" The bedsores hurt. He doesn't have the strength , for conversing, for holding up his head so that he can look at Stig. And Stig says, almost angrily, "For Christ's sake man, how long have we known each other? A long time. Right?" He looks down, "I never thought that. . " And Stig puts the flowers on the nightstand, lays his hand on the blanket, and squeezes it, swallowing hard. Get those flowers out of here . He can't think about anything else. Stig had touched them and then the blanket, for God's sake, don't touch me . Stig gives him a pleading look. But he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Stig's gone. At night he asks for a mirror. The nurse holds it in front of him: His cheeks are sunken, his skin hangs in large gray folds, his eyes are yellow, he looks like someone about to die. A corpse. He turns his head and looks at his inflamed ears. He'd already seen his hollowed out ribs and sunken stomach. His arms and legs that have transformed into bones covered with skin. He has felt the top of his head. But the face. He wants to scream, he has no strength. "Sleep well." The nurse is standing in the doorway and has turned off the light. She leaves. And he cries.

JULY

To see your own face. Now he's tormented by violent panic attacks, they give him medicine for this as well, and it helps: he sleeps better and more, it's as though his thoughts were padded with wool, no longer knocking hard against each other; he receives intravenous feeding, oxygen, morphine, he calls for a bed pan, he asks for music, and they bring it, he listens to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and the edge of pain is taken off.