Well he is, according to him.
We asked him why he thought he was and he told us it was because of all the muslims. 'Not that I have anything against Muslims' he told us. 'And why is the clock going backwards?' then diagnosed the issue as being in the northern hemisphere and the coreolis effect.
He wasn't supposed to be talking but he wouldn't stop and mostly so quiet no one could hear. But when I told him to shush for a while I heard a distinct.
'Fuck the shush'.
He was grumpy as hell. He kept trying to enlist Caleb to get him a drink. We weren't allowed to do it because of the risk it would go straight into his lungs. He was pissed off. 'Why are you all against me?' Glares all round.
'Would you like to be on your left side, or your right side?' the nurse asks.
'I don't care as long as I have a drink in my hand'.
'What would you like to drink?'
He couldn't understand how he'd got to Dubai, and how we were all there too.
I explained we were in Australia and Tasmania, at the Royal Hospital,
'Oh yeah, we came here to get married'.
He was disabused of that idea pretty quickly.
He was, as we all thought, shocked he'd been in hospital so long. He can't remember much, he thought he'd spent some time at Gary's. But I don't know of any Gary. He also thinks he may have seen the white light.
'Can I have a beer yet?'
Later we see him, we're allowed to rip off the gowns and masks because he no longer needs to be in iso, his swab was negative for swine flu. He keeps repeating, 'I've had tamiflu?'
He's out into the main ward now where he's a little less belligerent and eventually the 'fuckin' clock' is going forward once more and he's able to drink and eat, the best yoghurt ever and pureed icky looking stuff which he tosses back. His face mask is now a nasal prong thing and he hates it. He wants it out. He struggles to get his hand to his face to pull it off, but he is so weak, and his muscles so wasted he physically can't touch his nose. He's warned why it is he can't remove it, but he continues to try. Later he looks like he might make it, and Caleb touches a finger to his arm and restrains him with the pressure of a butterfly. Caleb gets the glare from hell.
Of course all these antics impress us hugely. We have ear to ear grins. I try to impress him about how ill he's been. I read him lots of emails from people and blog comments. I tell him all the wonderful stuff people have been doing for him and us.
'Hmm, I must be an Ok kind of bloke then'.
He looks overwhelmed, his bottom lips trembling.
'You OK Trev?'
'I thought you were crying'.
'Yeah, well I'm feeling emotional. Can I have that fuckin' beer now?'