It's 6.30am and I was awoken 20 minutes ago from the last of the light dozes that made up my night - light dozes broken by coughing, curtains being pulled, snoring, laughing, someone's unmannermoded device that plinks and blings at intervals, the occasional rustling of plastic bags and the muted din of all-night traffic from the overhead highway nearby.
This is my first night ever in a hospital in the 25 years I've been in Japan. It's the local hospital just a stone's throw across the river from where we live in eastern Tokyo. Half the facilities on the hospital compound are a hospital, the rest an old people's home.
|Urine collection point|
Pink is the only real color here in the hospital, and there's only a spot of it - limited to the plastic upholstered couches in the waiting room down the corridor. Everything else is ashen. Ashen with a hint of very old lemon or pale flesh. Hospital interiors aren't supposed to be stylish, but neither are they supposed to be lobotomized of anything suggesting life, joy or vigor.
|A spot more color: the orange call button.|
I haven't been allowed to drink anything since midnight. I'll be having a biopsy (something I keep mistakenly calling an autopsy) in a 2 or 3 hours from now, under a full anesthetic. I'll be in my pajamas all day like an invalid, with an ID tag on my wrist, and not allowed to go outside.
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