Chronicle & Humor: Bernard, Rushed to the Hospital in Cambodia

Bernard sprained his ankle getting off his stool a little too fast. He walks away with a splint, a three-day hospital room, a fridge stocked with smuggled beer, and the deep conviction that he narrowly escaped death.

Illustration photo only — © Cambodge Mag

The First Story

Twenty minutes after arriving at the emergency room, lying on a gurney with a slightly swollen ankle, Bernard posts his first story: "Guys, I'll keep you posted, this one's serious. Think of me." A photo of his grave face, framed to avoid showing the ankle in question, which would have immediately put things in perspective. A hundred and twelve reactions, forty-three of them hearts, and eight people already offering to organize a fundraiser.

The Diagnosis

The doctor explains, with the patience of a man who's lived through this scene a thousand times, that it's a simple sprain, and that a bandage and two days of rest would be more than enough. Bernard cuts him off: "But are you sure it's not worse than that? Did you check everywhere properly?"

He insists so much on the severity of his case that the doctor, out of exhaustion more than medical necessity, eventually gives in and keeps him for observation. Bernard takes this as a medical validation of his instincts.

Settling In

Once in his room, Bernard organizes his space with the seriousness of a polar expedition leader. A friend from the bar smuggles in, hidden in a grocery bag, a six-pack of Anchor and a whole pizza, "for morale."

Bernard hides the cans behind the nightstand, pulls the pizza out onto his lap, and tells the nurse who's come to take his blood pressure: "Ah no, don't touch that, that's personal!" — as if she'd shown the slightest interest in his lukewarm margherita.

The Remote Control

The next day, a football match airs on the only television in the hallway, visible from three rooms including his. Bernard turns the volume all the way up and narrates every play out loud, including during medical rounds.

In the neighboring room, an older man on an IV drip, recovering from an operation far more serious than Bernard's, closes his eyes and waits it out, with the resigned patience of someone who's already figured out there's nothing to be done.

The Complaints

Bernard spends most of his stay complaining about the medical staff to anyone who'll listen, including the medical staff themselves. "Honestly, the care here is bad, everything takes forever, nobody ever comes to check on me." A nurse, who has in fact been checking on him every hour since admission, nods silently and goes back to check the IV of the patient next door — the one who, unlike Bernard, hasn't lodged a single complaint in three days.

The Tally

Bernard leaves the hospital after three days, ankle still slightly swollen but perfectly capable of walking, and posts one last story: "Thanks everyone for your support, these last few days have been tough but I'm a fighter."

The photo, taken by a friend who came to pick him up, shows him smiling, a can of beer in hand, in front of the hospital. Nobody, in the comments, makes the connection between the can and the three days of heroic convalescence he's just recounted.