He was a graphic designer before all this happened. Ten months of inexplicable, progressive weakness had brought him to a neurologist in country Victoria who decided he needed an MRI.
It was the radiologist who picked up on the MRI scanner that this gentleman was so weak he was not supporting his airway, and who knows how long he was obstructing for before they found him and put a tube down his throat and hooked him up to a breathing machine.
He had been in intensive care for many days now, his breathing dependent on the ventilator working faithfully next to him. A tracheostomy tube sticks out of his neck awkwardly, and the rest of his body is like a roadmap with lines sticking out from his neck, nose, wrists and bladder, translating signs of life into measurable numbers.
The doctor looks at him and all he can see is his patient. He sees the diagnoses that is yet to be made, he sees the tests that need to be ordered, he reads the numbers on his charts that tell him the patient does not have a fever, that his blood pressure was holding and that his blood counts were all normal.
The patient was quite drowsy for the first few days, but he was more awake now. In a terrible way, he was alive, yes, but he was being kept alive. The tracheostomy tube keeps his lungs working, his nutrition is delivered by a nasogastric tube going into his stomach, his bladder drains into a bag without him having to stand up in a toilet. He is unable to communicate because of the tracheostomy tube - breathing takes priority over speaking for now.
He is understandably frustrated, a prisoner to the illness keeping him here, but instead of bars, there are hospital curtains and railed beds; instead of prison wardens there are the watchful doctors and nurses. He has pulled out his nasogastric tube countless times in protest, much to their dismay.
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The doctors and nurses have tried to be creative in helping him communicate. There is an electronic board with all the letters of the alphabet, and objects ('Doctor', 'Nurse', 'Toilet') and also a small whiteboard and marker when the electronic fails.
The gaggle of doctors stood over him patiently yesterday evening as he looked like he was desperately trying to communicate something to them.
'Count. My. Head. 1. 2. 3. 4.' was the repeated message after half an hour, almost eerie in its mystery.
The doctors tried to probe for a meaning, but the patient finally dismisses them with a roll of his eyes and a wave of his hand when he realised he wasn't getting through to them. It soon became apparent to the doctors that he was confused, and so they started him on some anti-confusion medications.
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"He's pulled out his nasogastric tube while I was at dinner," says the nurse, exasperated.
It was a Sunday evening. Big band music crooned gently from the radio that they had placed next to him to drown out the monotonous beeps and bells of the machines surrounding him. The morning nurses had reported that he seemed less confused to them today.
The doctor walks up to him and says "Look, Michael, I know that it is a terrible thing to have that tube put into your nose and down the back of your throat, but while you're on this tracheostomy tube, there's no other way of getting some food into you. Do you understand?"
Michael's eyes pulled up almost defiantly at him. He motions for the electronic board.
"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. I. C. O. S. T." came the message from his weakened arms.
The doctor is puzzled by this almost existential question. "I'm sorry Michael, how much do you cost? As in how much does it cost to keep you alive? Well, you are in intensive care, Michael, and it is quite exp..."
No, he shakes his head.
"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. U. C. O. S. T."
He taps on the 'Doctor' button.
"Oh, how much do I cost? Well. Michael," the doctor starts, uncertain how to answer him, "The government pays for me to look af..."
Michael starts pointing to himself and then to the doctor.
"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. U. C. O. S. T." Point. Point.
The doctor thinks he is still a little confused, and sighs - "I'm sorry Michael, I don't quite understand what you mean. I know it's fr...."
Suddenly it dawns upon the doctor what Michael was trying to say, and he breaks into a smile.
He turns to the nurse and says, "Sister, I am not sure if I am reading this correctly, but I think that Michael here is trying to bribe me."
Michael's face bursts into a large smile, nodding he had guessed right. The nurse bursts out into laughter and the doctor is taken aback by this unexpected joke.
"Well, Michael, I don't think you can afford him really," chirped the nurse, mock-chidingly.
Something shifted in the air that evening. The doctor notices out of the corner of his eyes the subtle movement of Michael's foot tapping along to the rhythm of the big band swing. The nurse even managed a little jiggle to the music as she walked past him, causing him to smile widely again.
Although his face scrunched a little from the discomfort, there was minimal resistance from Michael this time as the doctor fed the tube through his nose again.
The doctor waits for the nurse to leave, looks both ways and then leans down to Michael, and whispers conspiratorily into his ear - "For 50 dollars, I will break you out of this joint. How about that?"
Michael gasps a silent chuckle, and nods enthusiastically. For a few minutes, he feels human again.
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