The Hopeless Place

A few weeks ago Ben had his neck cut open. They did it because he couldn’t eat. Because an 11cm long abscess was pushing against his oesophagus making it impossible to swallow. A month earlier the doctors said he was too ill to stay at home. He needed daily blood transfusions. We were more concerned about the stabbing pains in his back, which they insisted were muscular. They told us there was another hospital, quieter, with mountain views. He could go there to recover.

A huge white building fronted by balconies, the hospital could have been a holiday resort in its plum location surrounded by jaw dropping mountains. It was built in the 1920s for people recovering from Tuberculosis. Driving up the winding road, it looked like the headquarters of an 80s bond villain. Up close it felt like a hospice.

Chickens roamed freely around the grounds. There was a vegetable garden for patients overlooking an old, dribbling fountain. Inside it was tired and eerie, an old piano gathered dust in the foyer. The lifts looked untrustworthy. His room was tired but huge and had an enormous balcony. The first thing Ben said was ‘you’d pay decent money for a hotel with this view, the second was, ‘I feel like they’ve sent me here to die.’