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My name is Matthew McPherson. I never knew it at first, I never understood it at all, I still don’t entirely have any recollection of why or what; all I know is that recently, people have stood beside me, holding my hand, saying things like everything’s going to be ok, you’ll soon be back with us, I can’t wait to speak to you again and I love you.

I’ve come a long way according to Dr. Simmons. He’s been visiting me since Jessica, Jerry and Mother left me a few nights ago, after our brief family dinner. What a disaster that was! I haven’t seen them since. Perhaps it was something I said, but the last thing I remember was Jessica, confidently telling Mother they had it all under control. Dr. Simmons told me they’d be back to see me when I woke up but I’ve been awake for days already and every time I’ve asked a question, he ignores me as if I’m not even there. I still don’t know what it is they seem to have under control.

Dr. Simmons is a large man. His belly protrudes through his white coat, stitched with his title and last name, almost as though his outfit was made for a younger version of himself and never rectified as the years went on. He stands confidently as though he runs the show and is always followed by others in similar white coats — though he’s the only one with his name displayed prominently on the left breast. Almost as a sign of authority. The others are more like groupies. It’s as though they’re there for support. Taking, what looks like, notes, for Simmons to reflect on later when he has a moment away from his travelling entourage.

“Doctor,” bellowed one of the groupies from the back, “we’ve got the results of Mrs. Miller’s scans — hypoglycemia it seems.”

Hypoglycemia? That’s what happens when someone’s blood sugar levels are so low it can cause them to fall into a coma. They usually put you straight into ICU until you either die, or regain consciousness. I learned that during my fifth year of my Master’s Degree at the University of Cape Town after one of my classmates, Vanessa Simpson, spent three months in a coma before passing away due to experiencing, what they defined, was Diabetes.

I managed to peek a view around the loud-mouthed Indian chap who’d just blurted out confidential information of some total stranger and saw a whiteboard with the name Mrs. Cynthia Miller scribbled untidily in black ink.

It wasn’t until this point I realised where I was and what was happening. Dr. Simmons came over to where I was. “Here we go, this should help a little,” he said. I felt something slight run down my arm — hard to describe but almost as though I had been pinched and with that my vision began to fade.

The whiteboard became a distant vision and the groupies alongside their main attraction soon became a blurred montage of bright light. I still have questions. I still need answers. Where am I going?