René Roberts

I can do this. I can do this. I grew up with three brothers. I’m a tough cookie.

I walk down the aisle, passing the ICU and the theatre. Outside the theatre, I recognise my doctor and I slow down slightly to eavesdrop. He is meeting with the loved ones of the patient he’d just operated on. He assures the man that THIS time, it PROBABLY worked. My eyes grow wide as I pick up the pace and repeat my mantra. I also convince myself that wasn’t MY doctor. It’s probably his twin brother. Or maybe I’m seeing things because I’m starving. You know. People see weird shit when they crawl around on their bellies in the desert, thirsting for a drop of water.

I find his rooms, announce my arrival at reception and take a seat. I’m the only patient. I wonder if that is a bad sign as my ass bites off a chunk of the pleather chair. Clearly the doctor is blissfully unaware of the stress factor his patients have to deal with – the TV is on Sony Max and I’m forced to watch 1000 Ways to Die. Wonderful bedside manner, Doc. It feels like I need to pee, but I know my bladder’s just having fun with me, because I had to fast for a day in preparation for these tests. I imagine my bladder as a freckled little Ginger, poking its chubby finger at me.

“Relieve me! Relieve me! Oh, wait, you didn’t have anything to drink this morning. Or last night. Cat caught your tongue? Oh, no, it’s just stuck to your palate because you’re dying for a drink!”

Asshole bladder.

I shift around nervously, clenching my jaw. I become a sponge. Call me Spongebob. I suck in any information available to me in an effort not to think about what’s about to happen to me. The receptionist is little Miss Chatterbox. Why wouldn’t she be? She had coffee. And breakfast. And dinner last night. She’s bragging about her little boy. He’s such a superstar, because he makes his own bed every morning. It was cute, until she mentioned that he was thirty years old.

An old man peers around the door and shuffles inside. He has no expression on his face as he tells the receptionist in detail what he’s here for.

“They’re going to shove some tube down my throat,” he says and my ass bites off another chunk. He takes a seat right next to me, despite the fact that there are another twelve chairs to choose from. Safety in numbers won’t work here old man. I’m Spongebob again, stealing glances in his direction.

Why do old men have clutches of hair protruding from their ears? Where the hell does it come from? I have a theory. I think old men’s brains start eating their hair. It’s a gradual process. Old people move slowly. Eventually the hair is sucked into the head. The problem is that their heads shrink. That’s also why their ears and noses appear bigger. The shrinking head means that there’s not enough space inside, so the hair gets shoved into orifices. Ears and noses.

My name is called and I’m led to another office by the nurse that plans to invade me this morning. I glare at her back as I follow her to the room, also known as The Abattoir. I check the walls for pieces of fingernails stuck in the plaster work. Who knows how many people have been dragged down this aisle. The nurse sits me down and chatters away, like she’s not about to hold me down and shove a tube into my stomach. She proceeds to walk me through the process in grave chilling detail.

Would it have been easier on the Jews if Hitler gathered them that morning?

“Gather round, Swine! Here’s what’s on the agenda for today. I was going to tell you that room over there is a shower and that you had to be disinfected, but fuck it. What’s really going to happen is that we’ll unload you from these cattle cars and lead you inside that gas chamber. Please lift up your arms. That way we can fit more of you inside. You can also expect for your human instinct to kick in. Inside those chambers, you’ll crush anyone to death in an effort to reach the top and keep breathing. It’s futile, retards. You won’t survive, so don’t tire yourself out. Einen guten Tag.”

I think not.

Either way, Nurse Führer just keeps on babbling. My ass is full. There’s no more space for upholstery.

She finally keeps quiet and I imagine her with a little Hitler Toothbrush Moustache. It does nothing to make me feel better. I lie down on her command. She collects a silver dish and puts it down next to me, clearly expecting the worst. She sees my eyes grow wider than the Lord’s Grace and she chucks the dish aside. My ass threatens to spit out the upholstery as she sprays liquid down my throat. She advises me not to panic as I feel my throat close up. I don’t take it to heart and I start shaking. Hitler strokes my arm and tells me to take a deep breath. I scan the ceiling for vents destined to spray poison into the room. I find none and take a deep breath. She sprays the same liquid up my one nostril and I really start hating her. She hands me a tissue to dab at my watering eyes. I keep it clutched so I’ll have it close at hand when I start bawling like Unathi at an Idols audition. She squeezes a blob of lubricant onto the tube and winks at me.

“You know this will make it go down easier.”

Nope. I don’t know actually. You’re a dark horse, Hitler.

She starts the process of sliding the tube up my nose and down my throat, which is now thankfully numb. I keep it together until she announces that were done.

I feel like Christopher Columbus when he discovered America in 1492. I stand up and feel a little taller. Nurse Führer attaches a monitor to the tube and explains to me which buttons to push when I eat or lie down. The monitor becomes my new friend for the following 24 hours. Not the kind of friend you take to the mall though. More like the kind of friend you tolerate because you’re stuck with her. The kind of friend that annoys you, simply by being there. Nurse Führer tells me to ignore my new friend as much as possible, not to pull on her and to keep her dry.

Don’t worry. I plan to.

She mentions that I might become nauseous, because the tube moves around inside and tickles that spot at the back of your throat. You know, the spot that makes you gag when you brush your tongue or when you see King Joffrey on an episode of Game of Thrones. Eating will also be a challenge, because swallowing won’t be easy.

Her parting advice?

She says it’s like everything else in life.

If you’re a negative person this will be an absolute nightmare. If you’re a positive person it will be a walk in the park.

For the rest of the day, I wear a smile and I rock my acid test.

Mazel Tov, Hitler! You have nothing on positivity!