Hospitals in Winter

The storm arrived on a Tuesday, aggressive and efficient, coating the city in three feet of snow and reducing visibility to the colour of curdled milk. Arthur Pringle, admitted to St. Jude’s Perpetual Care for what he insisted was a minor issue an aggressively persistent splinter lodged just under his fourth knuckle found himself trapped not by the blizzard, but by the relentless, suffocating internal climate control system.

The outside was a pristine, frozen tundra. The inside of St. Jude’s, specifically the third-floor surgical recovery ward, was the Amazonian rainforest, circa July.

Arthur had checked in wearing a thick wool coat. He was now sweating profusely through hospital-issued pyjamas that felt suspiciously like paper towels held together with static electricity.

His admission had been handled by Nurse Agnes, a woman whose temperament was as rigid as her orthopaedic shoes. Agnes believed fervently in two things: paperwork and maintaining the ambient temperature at a robust 85 degrees Fahrenheit, which she referred to officially as the "Optimal Pathogen Inhibition Threshold."

“Mr. Pringle,” Agnes stated, her face glistening slightly under the fluorescent lights, “we need to confirm your preferred level of discomfort.”

“I’m sorry, my preferred level of what?” Arthur wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“Discomfort. We offer Minimal, Moderate, or Therapeutic. Minimal is restricted to patients awaiting organ transplant or those involved in high-level espionage. You, with your digit situation, qualify only for Therapeutic.” She ticked a box with a pen that looked suspiciously like a tiny antenna.

“And what does ‘Therapeutic’ entail?”

“A robust regimen of humidity, three hourly temperature checks, and the compulsory wearing of the regulation non-slip socks, which, incidentally, are size Triple-XL, irrespective of your actual foot size. We find the pooling of material around the ankle to be mentally soothing.”

Arthur looked down at his feet, where the excess sock fabric was already trying to weave itself into a small, pale cotton basket.

He was assigned to Room 314, a double occupancy chamber already occupied by a man named Barry, and radiating more heat than a small volcanic vent.

Barry was a study in contradictions. He was in for a mild case of chronic heartburn, yet he was swaddled in a thick, quilted electric blanket plugged into an unauthorised extension cord that snaked across the floor like a pale orange python.

“Hallo,” Barry wheezed, adjusting the blanket setting from 'Roast' to 'Incinerate.' “You the new splinter chap? Welcome to the sweat lodge.”

Arthur peeled the damp hospital gown off his back, revealing skin the colour of boiled salmon. “It’s excruciatingly hot in here, Barry.”

“Is it? Hmm.” Barry squinted, then clicked a small digital thermometer he kept clipped to his bed rail. “Only 87. Mild day, then. Nurse Agnes is probably upset. Usually, she aims for 90.”

Arthur spent the first hour attempting to convince the window to open. It was a metal frame, sealed shut with a combination of industrial-grade paint, decades of grime, and a small, official sticker that read: A.M.E.T.H.Y.S.T. Protocol Compliant: Do Not Adjust Temperature.

“What is A.M.E.T.H.Y.S.T.?”

“Ah,” Barry whispered conspiratorially, leaning over with the effort of an Antarctic explorer traversing a crevasse. “It stands for Administration Mandated External Temperature Harmonisation Yielding Superior Transparency. It means they spend fifty grand on a tamper-proof seal rather than fixing the thermostat. Don’t touch it. Last month, a chap tried to pry it open with a fork. They charged him a $40 ‘Infrastructure Modification Fee.’”

Arthur sunk onto his bed, feeling the elastic waistband of his borrowed pyjamas fusing with his skin.

The hospital menu arrived for dinner: a colourless slurry vaguely identified as “Chicken Synthesis,” accompanied by a side of green beans that appeared to have been boiled since the previous fiscal year.

Barry pushed his tray away with a dramatic sigh. “Unacceptable. Food is the most critical element of the confinement experience. You need sustenance for the war, Arthur.”

“What war?”

“The war against blandness! The war against the inevitable conspiracy to keep us weak and compliant!” Barry gestured wildly toward the ceiling, nearly knocking over his bedside water pitcher.

This was Arthur’s first taste of Barry’s bedside manner. Barry's pain from heartburn clearly manifested as intense, low-grade paranoia focused entirely on institutional failings and the necessity of his electric blanket, which he believed was acting as a 'protective frequency dampener.'

The ward’s temperature peaked around 9 PM. Nurse Agnes made her rounds, looking crisp and oddly cheerful, like a penguin enjoying a spa day.

“Comfort levels, gentlemen?” she chirped.

“I’m boiling, Nurse,” Arthur pleaded. “I think I have heat stroke. My vision is blurring.”

Agnes consulted her clipboard. “Your core temperature readings are within the acceptable range of ‘Mildly Self-Sautéing.’ Optimal.” She then knelt beside Barry and adjusted the thermostat on his electric blanket. “Remember, Mr. Henderson, we require maximum thermal output at night to deter the condensation build-up on the window ledge.”

“Bless you, Agnes,” Barry said, sweating through his skull cap. “You are the only one who understands the struggle.”

Just as Arthur thought the night couldn't get worse, a commotion erupted across the hall. A new patient was being wheeled in—a tiny woman in a paisley dressing gown, clutching a severely oversized handbag.

This was Mrs. Mildred Higginbottom, admitted for observation following an incident where she attempted to pay for a taxi using eighteen pounds of loose change and a single, slightly wilted radish.

Mrs. Higginbottom was assigned to a cot right next to the window, completing the triumvirate of chaos in Room 314.

“Ah, the new blood,” Mrs. Higginbottom announced, pulling a heavy tweed scarf tight around her neck, despite the oppressive humidity. “Don’t mind me. I’m just here for the scenery.”

The moment the orderly left, Mrs. Higginbottom opened her massive tartan handbag. It was a cavern of contraband.

“Now,” she whispered, pulling out a miniature hot plate and a coil of wire. “Does anyone fancy a proper brew? They only give you that brown sludge out here. It tastes like they steeped the tea bags in disappointment.”

“Mrs. Higginbottom, you can’t use that,” Arthur hissed, terrified of Nurse Agnes reappearing.

“Nonsense, dear. It’s an essential medical device. Therapeutic warmth for my kettle.” She then proceeded to plug the hot plate into the wall socket right next to Barry’s electric blanket cord, creating a dense, spaghetti junction of wiring.

“A woman of ingenuity!” Barry clapped weakly. “But, Mrs. H, do you have any… chips?”

Mrs. Higginbottom smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye. She reached deep into the lining of her dressing gown and pulled out a family-sized bag of extra-spicy chili-cheese crisps.

“I find the key to institutional survival is strategic insulation,” she explained, munching loudly. “The crisps keep the jacket warm, and the jacket keeps the crisps safe.”

The next morning, Arthur woke up covered in a thin slick of perspiration and the smell of spicy cheese. Barry was asleep, snoring intermittently and twitching as his blanket hummed like a distant, angry beehive.

Mrs. Higginbottom was awake, sitting bolt upright, wearing a pair of thick gardening gloves.

“Good morning, Mr. Pringle,” she announced cheerily. “I’m conducting my morning inventory.”

She then began meticulously peeling back the layers of her cot mattress.

“What are you doing?” Arthur whispered, dumbfounded.

“They confiscated my marmalade yesterday,” she explained, pulling a jar of home-canned apricot jam from beneath the springs. “So I had to rearrange. I’m keeping the biscuits in the pillowcase—they muffle the crunching sounds—and the cheese scones are nestled inside my spare slippers.”

She paused, then tapped the wall next to Barry’s head. “The tins of sardines are behind the radiator. Don’t tell Barry. He talks in his sleep.”

The hospital’s attempt at enforcing compliance was led by a young, overworked orderly named Kevin, who was in charge of confiscating unauthorised items. Kevin was intimidated by Mrs. Higginbottom, who could paralyse him with a single, withering glare.

Kevin entered Room 314 cautiously around 11 AM.

“Mrs. Higginbottom, Nurse Agnes reminded me of the rules on unauthorised edibles.”

Mrs. Higginbottom sighed dramatically. “Oh, Kevin. Must we do this? I’m feeling exceptionally peckish today.”

Kevin spotted the electric kettle sitting innocently on the bedside table. “I have to take the kettle, ma’am.”

“It’s not a kettle, dear,” Mrs. Higginbottom said smoothly, wrapping her scarf around its base. “It’s my emotional support urn. It generates positive ions.”

Before Kevin could protest, Barry suddenly bolted upright, startling everyone.

“My blanket! My blanket is failing!” Barry shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger at his digital thermostat, which was now displaying the error code ‘E-404: Thermal Integrity Lost.’

“I told you that extension cord couldn’t handle the parallel load of the therapeutic blanket and the emotional support urn!” Arthur shouted, the heat having finally snapped his composure.

Chaos descended. Barry, deprived of his heat source, began shivering violently, despite the room temperature remaining a solid 86 degrees.

“I’m fading! I’m going into thermal shock! This is what they wanted! The conspiracy!”

Kevin, panicked by the sight of a man shivering in a sauna, scrambled for the nearest solution, which happened to be Mrs. Higginbottom’s tartan handbag.

“I need a spare blanket! Emergency insulation!” he yelled, plunging his arm into the bag.

He didn't find a blanket. He found a dense quantity of dry goods.

He pulled out:

A small, dented tin of anchovies.
A pair of binoculars.
A travel copy of Moby Dick.
And, finally, the mother lode: a massive Ziploc bag containing approximately four pounds of homemade fudge, which scattered across the floor in sugary, thick chunks.

Mrs. Higginbottom let out a sound like a hawk being interrupted mid-flight. “My emergency glucose reserve! You brute!”

Barry stared at the fudge, momentarily forgetting his thermal trauma. “Fudge! Arthur, they have fudge! The hospital food conspiracy has a leakage point!”

Kevin fled the room, covered in fudge dust and the stench of anchovies.

 

Act IV: The Splinter’s Farewell

Arthur retreated into the tiny bathroom, which felt slightly cooler, provided one pressed their face against the tiling. He looked at his hand. The splinter, the cause of all this misery, was gone. It had clearly surrendered during the night, either melting out due to the extreme heat or being exorcised by the ambient paranoia. His knuckle was pink, healthy, and completely un-splintered.

He realised he was cured, but far from free.

He emerged to find Mrs. Higginbottom attempting to discreetly sweep the fudge into a small dustpan using her hands, while Barry was busy wrapping himself in three hospital sheets, muttering about the looming threat of freezer burn.

Arthur decided he would simply walk out. He just needed his clothes.

His clothes, however, were being meticulously folded and categorised by Nurse Agnes, who had replaced Kevin at the nurses’ station.

“Mr. Pringle,” she said, without looking up. “Your discharge evaluation is pending the completion of Form 41-B, ‘Post-Traumatic Comfort Rejection Waiver.’”

“Agnes, I’ve been here 36 hours. My splinter is gone. I need to leave before I boil my internal organs.”

“Impossible. The blizzard is at its peak. Furthermore, your discharge requires a mandatory five-minute instructional video on the proper administration of bed socks and a signed acknowledgment that you received your complimentary tube of industrial-grade hand sanitiser.”

Arthur felt a surge of adrenaline, fuelled by heat exhaustion and fudge anticipation. “I refuse the video. I reject the sanitiser. I am removing myself from this climate disaster immediately.”

Agnes finally looked up, her expression one of utter professional distress. “But Mr. Pringle, if you leave now, you will be walking straight into sub-zero temperatures! You will suffer Thermal Imbalance!”

“Thermal Imbalance,” Arthur corrected, grabbing his coat from the plastic bin. “Would be anything less than 85 degrees. I welcome it.”

He snatched the discharge paperwork, scribbled ‘NO’ across every box, and made his way toward the main exit doors.

“Wait! You’ll need a snack for the journey!” Mrs. Higginbottom yelled. She tossed something hard and wrapped in a napkin. Arthur instinctively caught it. It was a cheese scone.

Barry, now completely cocooned in linen, gave a muffled farewell. “Tell the outside world! We are still fighting the good fight against the thermostat!”

Arthur reached the lobby. The heat was less intense here, replaced by the faint, cold draft leaking under the enormous, air-locked glass doors that separated St. Jude’s from the true world.

He paused, taking a deep breath of the overly clean, humid air. He felt the familiar pull of the hospital’s bureaucratic gravity—the need to stay, sign, comply, and sweat a little longer.

Then, he pushed the door open.

The immediate sensation was violent and shocking. The cold hit him like a physical blow—clean, exhilarating, and shockingly dry. Snow was falling in thick, silent flakes. The air tasted like mint and concrete.

Arthur stepped out, pulling the collar of his coat high, feeling the sweat on his scalp instantly turn to goosebumps. He looked back at St. Jude’s Perpetual Care, the windows glowing yellow and foggy like a giant, institutional terrarium.

He walked into the blizzard, the wind whipping his cheeks. He took a bite of Mrs. Higginbottom’s cheese scone—it was magnificent, robust, and slightly stale—and then he began to laugh, a loud, raw sound that was immediately swallowed by the perfect, liberating silence of the winter storm.

He was cold. He was free. And for the first time in 48 hours, he was dry. His ordeal in the tropical ward was over, and Arthur Pringle realised that sometimes, the only cure for a minor ailment is a major disaster.