sent from: London, UK. destination: San Rafael, California, USA

His foot had slipped on the pedal. As a result, he was now being taken to hospital. 

He had once imagined being taken to hospital as something slightly glamorous – out of my way, I’m on important business – but it wasn’t like that. He hoped he could get tidied up and be home soon. Everyone – from the ambulance, to the nurses, and then the doctors, asked him about his head, which to him felt sore but he kept telling them the problem was inside, in his stomach. Later he would look in the mirror and understand – his face was caked in blood, his head swollen and dark. No wonder they all asked about it. He spent that night in agony, inexpressable pain. He didn’t know it, but his spleen had burst, and was bleeding inside him. The next day a brass band played in the corridor, because it was Christmas, but they may well have been walking on his stomach – it seemed to vibrate inside him, and he begged for them to stop playing. They didn’t. He was on the women’s ward, and at night it was a chorus of groans and complaints. He bled for three nights, exhausting the tests of the hospital. Finally, they took him to another hospital (a jarring ride), where he drank a horrible aniseed-flavoured liquid and was scanned in a machine. Soon after, it was declared that his spleen needed to be removed, and soon. 

It was Christmas Eve. 

Part IV: #137 – tomorrow!