I found myself alone in the hospital this morning. It was a waste of a day already, as I’d spent my time lying around and talking to no one, and then I got into work, and that’s where the real lying started. You see, I have a bit of a problem.
For the past three years of my life, I’ve worked in this department. It’s big, and sometimes spacious if we’ve run out of wheelchairs and beds, which take up most of the corridors nowadays. I sit near the ambulance bay, and so the wind comes in every time the doors open. I like to tuck myself into the corner and not be seen by anybody, and especially not the outside world: if it caught any idea of my being here, I’d be properly blasted with ice-cold, unflattering air.
It’s the same as any job. When it’s boring, it’s boring, and when it’s not… let’s just say that I’ve seen my fair share of fist-fights over these past few months.
But whatever, so the poets say.
My real problem is that I want to leave the Programme.
You might question what I mean by ‘leave’, might laugh at my apprehension—at your assumption—but whatever you think it is, that’s not really what I’m talking about. You’d know what I meant if you lived here too. Everyone else does.
We have to be careful. I don’t want this to get into someone else’s hands, or they’ll start talking about people like me and then I’ll be really into the thick of things. So don’t make this worse for me.
I’ll get to the point. Our world is slightly different from yours. Yes, we have hospitals. Yes, we have emergency departments – and yes, for better or worse, we still have administrators who print everything off for you. That’s me. I’m paid to do that, and then I get on the bus and go home, and it’s all very pleasant. Then I do it the next day, and I have my two days off, whenever they come.
I’ve tried talking to the people in my department, but they’re strange. Not all of them, of course, but the ones who do talk back are usually doing so with the air of someone who is likely to get caught if they go on for too long. The others just look at you, and smile or frown, then they ask you to do something, and you do it and they walk away.
It’s not their fault. I suppose we don’t see each other for long enough to establish any real sort of contact.
But this morning, I was alone (it doesn’t matter how—only that there were no patients or staff, no wheelchairs, no beds—it was empty), and I finally said it aloud. I want to exit the Programme.
You really need silence to say that sort of thing. No one can cope with it, and I know that because I’ve tried to joke about it, and they all went quiet. That’s the difficulty: you can’t spring that on someone when you’re in the queue for the canteen, or passing by chance on your way to the staff room.
I’ve seen others who want to leave, as well. They have that look in their eye. I’ve tried to speak to them, but they end up changing the subject and won’t tell me what’s going on. They’re right, in a way. It’s none of my business, and if anyone finds out that I’ve been hearing them out, they’ll get me into trouble in some way.
It’s anyone, not just people who work at this hospital. My favourite patients are the ones where I can tell they want the same as me, except that they’ve been discovered and brought in to talk about it. I’ve seen the police pick them up, and while I’m working away, I try to make eye contact with the patients as if I could help—as if I could ever let them know the truth!
We have paid professionals to talk to people about exiting the Programme, how it’s advised against in all measures, that it takes time and precious money away from the people who really want to be here, that we only have so many resources to go around. It’s your own fault if you really don’t like the way things are done, because everybody else is able to enjoy the Programme in some way. Besides, the people in charge are always so busy. I work with some of them, and they always make a point to let me know just how busy they are.
But I know it’s not just me: I’ve seen it everywhere, those posters teaching you how to spot the signs of someone who wants to leave the Programme, how to watch them carefully if you’re unsure. Who to call, what to do, if they won’t listen to reason. They’ve got steps on how to get yourself back into it, loving the Programme again. One of the ideas was to keep a journal, that you could write down a few things each day to remind yourself of why you’re grateful to be in the Programme at all.
I’ve never told anyone about what I really think. Some people get taken away forever because of it, if they’re really bad. I’ve known a few who change their minds about leaving, and now they go around telling everyone that people who want to leave don’t actually want to, that it’s all in the way they’re looking at things.
No one really wants to have a conversation about it. I think most of them are afraid of wanting to leave, because we haven’t been told what happens next. There’s no form or anything to fill in, people just disappear all the time. Sometimes it’s those you weren’t expecting—and that’s terrifying.
I’ve heard that you can say it out loud like a birthday wish. I want to exit the Programme. I want to leave.
But in all honesty, I can’t remember ever signing a contract.
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