Yesterday I waited at the hospital from 3 pm until 6 am to see a doctor in Emergency. When I first arrived, I was told there was a six-hour wait. I started and finished a book while waiting (Michelle Zauner's Crying in H Mart). Good thing I brought three books, I joke to the husband. (Not that I thought I'd finish all three; I just wanted choice, if not in my current circumstances, at least in my distractions.) He brings me another: The Mushroom at the End of the World by Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing. The subtitle is On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins. Whiff of the apocalyptic and the utopian in that idea.

In the waiting room, we watch--exhausted, sometimes rapt, shifting ceaselessly on rock-hard seats--soaps, rural murder mysteries, and midnight reruns of surreally chirpy morning shows. In one corner a middle-aged woman rocks in her seat cradling her belly. Two men chat, once strangers, now united by their ailments and disgust with "the system". Young lovers tighten their arms around each other. Once in a while, a security guard strolls through to check if we have become unruly in our restlessness. The Irish public healthcare system is a mess, I think as I watched a dazed man carrying his IV drip fumble at the snack vending machine.

In the last five hours I have received an antibiotic drip, intravenous meds, examinations by two doctors, a scope down the nose, no food since 4 pm (I have trismus among other ailments, which means I have only eaten scrambled eggs, porridge, yogurt, ice cream, and smoothies in the last week; god I miss bread). I managed a short kip, but now wide awake in the country of illness.

Now I'm back in the waiting room, waiting for admittance. I recognise some people from the night before. Imminent: CT scan, breakfast (please!), steroid drip, antibiotic drip for a couple of days, possibly surgery. Yes, the last nine days have been interesting.

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