ABSTRACT
Source: Bauby, J-D. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. London: Forth Estate Ltd, 1997. Reproduced by permission.
GUARDIAN ANGEL
The identity badge pinned to Sandrine’s white tunic says ‘Speech Therapist’, but it should read ‘Guardian Angel’. She is the one who set up the communication code without which I would be cut off from the world. But alas! While most of my friends have adopted the system, here at the hospital only Sandrine and one lady psychologist use it. So I usually have the skimpiest arsenal of facial expressions, winks and nods to ask people to shut the door, turn on a tap, lower the volume on the TV, or fluff up a pillow. I do not succeed every time. As the weeks go by, this forced solitude has allowed me to acquire a certain stoicism and to realize that the hospital staff are of two kinds: the majority, who would not dream of leaving the room without first attempting to decipher my SOS messages; and the less conscientious minority, who make their getaway pretending not to notice my distress signals. Like that heartless oaf who switched off the Bordeaux-Munich football game at half-time, saying ‘Goodnight!’ with a finality that left no hope of appeal. Quite apart from the practical drawbacks, this inability to communicate is somewhat wearing. Which explains the gratification I feel twice daily when Sandrine knocks, pokes her small chipmunk face through the door and at once sends all gloomy thoughts packing. The invisible and eternally imprisoning cocoon seems less oppressive.
