Having sold virtually everything not nailed down in the guesthouse to the multitude of villagers who arrived looking for bargains (of which there were many), it was time to return to my own property and figure out the next step in my life. My own log house had since fallen into such disrepair that it was impossible to once again take up residency there. Fortunately, my neighbors also owned a renovated log house across the street, so I moved in while formulating a plan for my future.
On my property behind the log house, I had already started construction of a small building that I had intended as a storage and work area. Left unfinished, I now viewed it as a blank canvas. Since I was technically homeless, I decided that it should become a “tiny house,” not one of those adorable tiny houses that one sees exhibited on television shows, but a functional small dwelling to keep me warm and dry until my own house could be renovated. A recently retired construction worker, my neighbor Ján was 110% on board with the project. So plans were quickly drawn up and execution begun. Made made arrangements to drive to the hardware store on Saturday morning.
The morning coffee cup emptied, I got into my Škoda and waited for Ján to appear. I was feeling fine until my arms began to suddenly tremble and I was overcome with a hot flash. Ján came out and got into the car with me, but immediately asked why I was shaking so badly.
I had had similar attacks in the two previous years, both coincidentally in July. My remedy was to take aspirin and go to bed. I always felt fine the next day. But this attack was different in terms of severity.
“I don’t know,” I responded, “but it will soon pass.”
Ján was skeptical that it would “soon pass,” and suggested that I come to his house until I felt better. I agreed. Inside, his wife, Mária showed serious concern. She made me lay down on the bench.
Everything afterwards is hazy in my memory. I don’t remember Štefánia coming over. Nor do I recall the sound of the approaching ambulance, nor the healthcare workers carrying me into the back of the ambulance to cart me off to the hospital in Kežmarok. The next thing I remembered was waking up in the back of the ambulance dripping in sweat and feeling extremely thirsty. I lifted my head.
“It’s really hot in here!” I said to the attendants.
“Yes, you have a fever,“ the woman replied.
“Can I have some water?”
“No.”
I lay my head down again and starred at the digital clock mounted inside the cab that painfully reminded of each agonizing minute I spent in the back of the ambulance. The trip seemed interminable. Finally, the ambulance stopped and the doors opened.
My next recollection is that of my neighbors, Ján and Mária, standing at the foot of my bed and carrying of personal items that Štefánia had prepared. They chatted for a few minutes before leaving.
Later I was taken to an examination room where the doctor was a nun in full habit. She asked me to urinate in a cup. Urinate in front of a nun? Really?! Declining, they put up a modesty screen, but the urine would not flow. The nun doctor warned me that if I did not pee into the cup, I would have to be catheterized.
During this examination period, my telephone rang. “It’s the woman from my health insurance company,” I explained.
“Páni Lachova, your timing is amazing; I’m in the hospital!”
“What happened?!” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered, “some kind of infection.”
While distracted by the telephone, I didn’t notice a male health care worker enter the room. Before I understood what was happening, he inserted a catheter into my urethra. I let out a scream, which was the final sound Páni Lachova heard before the phone was drained of its energy and went silent.
I spent a total of eight days in the hospital, which I will describe in a later post. I was glad to be home, even though home was my neighbors’ house across the street from my own. I was pleased to see that, during my absence, Ján had made progress on the tiny house. Things would be alright.