Back to the Hospital Days
A few days after seeing Dr. Retji, it was confirmed: I’d have to stay in Paris and press pause on my studies. But before that, I still had things left in Madrid. My little studio right by Plaza del Colón—just a two-minute walk from Vatel Madrid, when the campus was next to the Alliance Française and the Consulate. I loved that apartment.
Madrid was also where I had built friendships—Essie from Finland, Aizhan from Kazakhstan, Amparo from Spain, and so many others. Leaving all of that behind wasn’t easy, but it was clear: it was time to say goodbye. So, gout and all, I flew back to Madrid, packed up my things in under 48 hours (the maximum time I was allowed to stay), and headed back to Paris.
By then, COVID was starting to creep into Europe. Countries were talking about lockdowns—a word I had never heard before. It felt like the whole world was going to war with an invisible enemy.
Then came Monday, February 17th 2020. The day I was dreading.
I received a letter from Georges Pompidou Hospital, written in that cold, standard hospital font:
“Dear Ms. Gaëlle Crespin, you are awaited to be hospitalised at the Georges Pompidou Hospital for the placement of your catheter on the 19th of February 2020. Please bring along your insurance information, passport, and confirmation of your appointment.”
No mention of how many days I’d stay. Just: you’re coming in. That’s when I learned Professeur Thervet’s final decision: I’d be getting a catheter.
For context, a catheter is a soft tube that’s placed in a large vein, usually in the neck, for dialysis. Less invasive than a fistula but riskier—it can’t get wet, and infections are a constant danger.
I had a day and a half to process it. Sleep? Impossible. My mind was spinning back to my first surgery at age four. I don’t remember much, but I do remember lying in a strange containment bed, my mom next to me with one of her closest friends, both looking devastated as they said goodbye before the peritoneal dialysis surgery.
The second time I went under anesthesia was when I broke my arm against a metal door (but that’s another story for another time). So I didn’t really have a clear idea of what to expect. My only “reference” for surgeries was Grey’s Anatomy, where basically someone dies on the table in every episode—not exactly comforting binge-watching before my own procedure.
That night, my brain ran in circles: What if I die on the table? What if my heart explodes? What if I bleed out? Dramatic, maybe, but those were the thoughts that haunted me. Because let’s be real—the unknown is always the scariest part.
On February 19, 2020, my mom woke me up like always. I packed a small bag, got dressed, and we took an Uber to Georges Pompidou. Oddly enough, I wasn’t scared anymore. Maybe because there was nothing I could do. Maybe because deep down I hoped I’d be home the same day.
We went straight to the 7th floor, where Professeur Thervet’s office is. But instead of turning left toward his office, we turned right—toward hospitalization. I’d been there before. The same woman at the desk smiled and helped me check in. I like to think I got my private room because I was their favorite (probably not, but let me believe it). The last time I’d been hospitalized, I had to share a room with an elderly woman who was constantly in pain and crying. It broke me. This time, at least, I had privacy.
The nurses came in to weigh me, ask the standard questions, and slip a hospital bracelet onto my wrist. For me, that bracelet always feels like a pair of handcuffs—the official sign that you’re not leaving.
My mom stayed with me until dinner, but after 8 p.m., I was alone. I wished she could’ve stayed the night like when I was four, but it wasn’t possible.
I twisted and turned the entire night, wide awake, knowing what was waiting for me the next morning: surgery.
This is me, signing off — Till next time!
Gee