In the aftermath of completing my A-levels, I made what seemed like an excellent decision to splurge my hard-earned earnings from my Saturday job on a vacation with friends in Corfu. I anticipated a quintessential holiday experience filled with sun, sea, and fun. However, what unfolded was akin to a scene from a sci-fi horror story, particularly given the context of the rising swine flu pandemic in 2009.
As I journeyed to Bristol airport, I wasn’t feeling my best but attributed it to motion sickness. I attempted to rest during the flight, hoping to rejuvenate for the festivities that awaited us upon arrival. However, at the Greek passport control, I was met with heat-sensitive cameras designed to detect travelers with elevated temperatures. My friends passed through without incident, but I appeared on the monitor as a vivid green figure, signaling a high fever. Chaos ensued immediately, and I was swiftly taken to a secluded room before being transported by ambulance, dashing any hopes of partying.
The remainder of my experience is a disjointed recollection of strange moments, none of which I can recount with full certainty since my fever climbed and my condition worsened.
Upon arriving at the hospital, I underwent extensive examinations. The language barrier left me confused about what was occurring. During an attempt to draw blood, there was a mishap that resulted in blood spilling onto the floor, leaving me with multiple puncture wounds, a large bruise, and a rising sense of panic. The only English phrase the medical staff seemed to know was, “Oh shit!”
I found myself alone in a room devoid of air conditioning, with only an open window to alleviate the oppressive Greek heat. I drifted in and out of a feverish sleep, often waking in distress, fearing I had lost control of my bladder, only to discover it was just sweat soaking the sheets. To add to my misfortune, my menstrual cycle began unexpectedly, compounding the already dismal circumstances.
At one point, I faintly heard someone calling my name, and initially thought it was a figment of my fevered imagination. However, when I hobbled to the window, I spotted my friends in the parking lot, surrounded by discarded rubbish and medical paraphernalia, calling up to me as if I were a captive princess in a tower. This improvised method of communication became our only means of connection while our phones struggled to connect to the local networks.
I was required to monitor my own temperature at various intervals, even shouting the readings through the door to a nurse. I was administered various unidentifiable pills and received injections with syringes that were carelessly left on my bedside table.
Eventually, it was determined that I was not “patient zero,” and I was transferred to a public ward. Although I was attached to an unnecessary intravenous drip (which I had no issue with regarding fluid intake), navigating the hospital became a challenge. It felt akin to wrestling with a malfunctioning cart attached to me. I often opted to carry the entire stand to the restroom, maneuvering it into the cubicles, which seemed to double as unofficial smoking areas.
Despite my ordeal, I never discovered the cause of my illness; the stack of medical documents I received upon discharge was entirely in Greek. Ultimately, I did manage to reach the resort, though my activities were limited to staying in the shade, and I was without any tropical cocktails during my stay.
