Father enters the patient’s room, but the patient’s room is empty. There is a bed that remains tilted upwards, covered in dishevelled bedsheets. There’s a greeting card with a picture of the patient’s family and words of encouragement. It is six in the evening. It is the last hour of Father’s work before his shift ends. The surgery happened a few hours ago, and the patient has been waiting in the recovery room for the drugs to wear off. It is about time for her to return back to her room, and yet she has not arrived. Father looks at his smartwatch for some time, then opens his chart.
The patient is wheeled in. She is a white woman with wavy red hair but with grey curls intruding here or there. She is obese by the standards of Northern Ireland. Her stomach is large, and her body pools around itself in waves of fat. She is freshly awake. Her eyes are blinking and adjusting to the various different corners of the room. They squint together when she notices the person with her.
‘Oh, doctor, here you are,’ she says, wheezing out her words.
‘A good day to you Ayla,’ Father says. ‘How are you feeling?’
The patient looks up to the ceiling. Her eyes are cracked, red, and watering.
‘I feel like a part of me is gone.’
Father doesn’t look up from his chart.
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