The Wrong Hospital Name - short story by Angela Lansbury

My name used to be Joan Baker but I changed it as fast as I could. Why the hurry? Firstly, I had known for a long time I was not the only Joan Baker. My post and emails would go all around the world and occasionally reach me years later. But the real killer was that I discovered on my way to the surgery in hospital that I was listed as Joan Barker.  Did I protest?

Of course I did! Wouldn't you? I tried to sit up and speak. But a kindly curly-haired nurse, smiled, "Don't worry, Mrs Barker, you will be fine."

She was wrong. When I woke, I was not fine. I was in a ward with notes on the end of my bed saying Mrs Barker. I knew because every nurse and doctor who came in, smiled and said, "Hello, Mrs Barker."

What did I reply? I could hardly speak, but I whispered, "I am not Mrs Barker."

The nurse I had secretly nicknamed Miss Curly-hair smiled and nodded at the doctor and exchanged knowing looks with him.

Several hours passed, days. Outside the window I saw the sky grow dark and light again three times. Eventually, I sat up, with help from two nurses.

The younger, pretty one, with lots of curls, said to me, "Please don't talk. If you want to, you can write."

I could feel my face was bandaged, with a tube. I was scared. I only went in for an ingrown toenail operation. What had gone wrong?

Miss Curly handed me a slate.

The other nurse announced, "Your husband is here to see you!"

I protested, "I am not married."

I heard nurse, Miss Curly, whispering to him, "Patients from major, life-changing surgery are often in denial. They don't recognize their new selves, or their old families. Just agree to everything she says. For recovery, it is important not to stress them. Do you understand?"

My new, or old, husband, who I didn't recognize, sat down. He had black hair, a long thin nose, like a musician, thin hands, small round intellectual glasses like John Lennon. I had never seen him before.

I said, "You are not my husband."

He smiled, "We lived together happily so many years, and you always wanted to get married, so when they told me your life was in danger, I called in a priest. You were groggy but you said I do. And I had the document you had previously signed saying you agreed to be married, to legitimize our son."

I wrote, "What son?'

He called in a young black-haired boy, with round glasses, the image of his father, about thirteen years old, a child I did not recognize, who exclaimed,"Mother!"

Behind the glasses, he had tears in his eyes, "Mother, I was so worried about you!"

I sighed. I had to disappoint him. Where was his real mother? Maybe his real mother had died on the operating table? The sooner he knew the truth the better. Otherwise it would be a double shock for him later.

I had my own problems, with my identity crisis. I did not want his problems too, as if it was my fault for deceiving him with false hope. I thought, let's get it over with.

I wrote and asked, "Sonny, who do you see? Can you see your mother? Do I sound like your mother?"

He smiled, "Mum, your face is bandaged, and you can't speak well because of your throat, and the new lips. They said you would be different, what with the car accident and the operation on your facial scars, but we still love you."

"Bring me a mirror!" I demanded. "I am not your mother. This is all a mistake!"

The nurse, my Miss Curly, appeared and ushered them out.

She gave me a mirror. My face was completely bandaged. Just one eye showing, almost shut. No wonder nobody knew who I was. I knew a way to settle this.

"Please, nurse, where is my handbag? It contains my identity card for the train, and my passport. It will show you who I am."

Miss Curly went away for half an hour. She returned with her hands clenched, licking her lips. Why was she looking so agitated?

She said, "I am so sorry, Mrs Barker. It seems that your bag has - gone missing."

I gasped, 'NO"' but only a muffled grunt could be heard. I waved for the writing pad.

I wrote to the nurse, "Find my bag. Find my passport. I don't want to see this so-called husband and son, again, until I can prove to them and myself, who I really am."

Miss Curly nodded her curls and left.

I was all alone. Just me and the window. The sky growing darker.

Waking to the light. It seemed like a bad dream. Where was I? Staring at a white wall and ceiling. No decoration. No home. I was in a hospital.

Another day passed. Light, dark, light.

The doctors made their usual round.

The pretty, curly-haired nurse still called me, Mrs Barker. "Mrs Barker, the doctors will see you now. They are pleased with my reports on your progress."

The chief surgeon, a rather handsome, tall, slightly bald man, leaned forward from the end of the bed and told me, with his professional bedside manner smile, " Madam, you are a pioneer, this hospital's success story. We have to keep the press away, until you are ready to see them. Your face is healing faster than expected, due to the new drugs."

'Where's my bag!" I demanded. "It was in my bedside locker. I have changed rooms. Check every locker in the hospital."

"You want your bag? To see your old passport photo. We would not normally check bedside lockers," he answered. "Because each locker is private property. However, I suppose we could clean all the lockers once a week, and check each item belongs to the patient in the next bed before handing back the property."

They left. A flurry of white coats.

I sighed. A tear rolled down my cheek.

I was so happy. I was pleased with my success. I had been so clever. I had found the solution.

I would soon be going home. I had almost forgotten my home.

The poor surgeon was trying to be helpful. He was so proud of his successful operation. He did not realize his dreadful mistake. Operating on the wrong person.

He and the hospital were going to be in big trouble.  I would get millions. Providing they did not try to kill me to conceal their mistake.

I promised myself, I will not let them give me any injection of any kind, not for any reason. Whatever aches and pains I have, I won't mention the pain. If they could make a genuine mistake on the wrong patient, they could easily pretend to make a mistake and give me a fatal sedative.

No more being difficult. I must be cunning. I had to pretend to be calm and co-operative, go along with their nonsense. Until I got out of hospital and could see a lawyer!

That meant I also had to pretend to be the wrong person with my so-called husband. And that poor boy, my so-called son. I felt sorry for them. They were also victims of the system.

I had no idea what had happened to their mother. That poor boy had lost his mother. Maybe I could stay in touch. I had been a teacher before. Years ago. Mrs Baker.

I would count the days. The sky was the only constatnt. No clock. Just the sky. I must count the days on my fingers.

Next day, whatever day it was, the nurse, Miss Curly, came back, smiling.

"We have your handbag, Mrs Barker. Another patient, with dementia, took your bag, and a lot of other property, by mistake."

Some mistake. Not the only person in that hospital making a mistake. But I had to be nice to them. Especially, Miss Curly.

I said, "Thank you so much for finding my precious bag. Well done. You made my day."

Should I reveal the bad news, whilst I was still in hospital, vulnerable? I decided to do it gently, cautiously, gradually, check their reaction.

I asked the nurse, Mis Curly, "What's your name?"

She said, "Joanne."

"Joanne, what a lovely name," I replied. I considered asking, "How would you feel if everybody called you Joan instead of your real name?"

I decided not to say that. It would unsettle her.

Instead I said, "Joanne, dear. You have been so good to me. Would you kindly take out the passport photo and the mirror so I can compare my new face with healing scars and the old passport photo."

She hesitated, "Are you sure it won't upset you? I can do that. But I need to send a counsellor to see you later today. Will you see the counsellor?"

"Yes," I said, and waved for the writing pad.

She grinned delightedly, "You spoke. You spoke clearly! You are all healed. You don't need the writing pad any more."

"What a relief, " I replied. "Thank you so much for all your care. Now may I see the passport and my photo."

She showed me the passport and my photo. The passport and my photo did not match. Not surprisingly, because I am not Mrs Barker, but the passport was Mrs Barker.

I was right. But there was only one things wrong. The passport was Mrs Barker, supposedly the old me. The face was somebody else. it wasn't Mrs Baker either.  How would they explain that? Had they put a mask on me to hide the scars?"

The nurse sat down and patted my hand.

"Let me explain," Mrs Barker. 'You were in an accident. Your face was badly damaged. But you were very lucky. You have a new face, a transplant. Oh, please stop crying."
She jumped up, calling, "Nurse, nurse, bring some morphine!"

I struggled and screamed and struggled. But it was no use. They jabbed the needle in my arm. I fell asleep.

When I woke, my so-called husband was in the room with the little boy.

My so-called husband said, "Hello, darling Joan. It's Daniel. Your son, Mike, and I have been looking at pictures of your new face to get used to it. We have been told we can take you home.

"Everything is arranged, we have a nurse at home, a cook, a secretary, everything you could need, for as long as you need. I am afraid that they want you to go home in an ambulance. But we'll go to our city central pad in the ambulance. Then I have laid on a new Rolls which can take a stretcher or a wheelchair. Are you happy to be going home?"

So I was going to the wrong home?

It all happened just as he said. We went to a small, expensive one-bedroom flat in the centre of town. We transferred in a stretch limo with umpteen doors to an amazing colonial mansion.

Upstairs, in the newly decorated bedroom cum studio, I saw at the desk in front of a bank of computers and screens, next to the bedroom with the four-poster bed which linked to his bedroom.

He sat beside me. He said,"You look puzzled. Do you want to contact anybody? Do you want me to type for you?"

I said, 'I just want to do a search, for Joan Baker."

'The woman whose face you have?"

He did a search. There she was. The old me. In a messy little one room studio flat.

All in all, things had changed for the better.

I said, 'That's enough. The new face doesn't look like either of us. A kind of hybrid. If you look at the left of my new face, it's her, look at the right - and it's the new me!"

"Darling,' he said, "I'm so glad you can now accept reality, your new life, with a new face."

Yes, I know it was all a terrible mistake. I was the old Joan Baker, masquerading as the new Joan Barker in a grand mansion with lots of servants, a son who was already well past the crying baby stage, who loved his mother.

I was his step-mother, but like so many adopted children, he didn't know. He was better off not knowing.

So why am I telling you?

I felt compelled to write it down. Why?

Why not? Of course, nobody will believe this. You will say, it's just a story.

Of course, it's just a story. And my name is not Joan Baker.

-ends-
Copyright Angela Lansbury. 21 Jun 2020.