You've probably guessed where this is heading, but picture it if you will. Still dressed in my walking gear but with a cardigan thrown over the top. Chosen - quite evidently - for comfort rather than class. Flushed face with nary a skerrick of foundation, sweat-slicked hair adhering itself to my scalp like a second skin. Plus of course, with all that was going on, it's not like I'd slept all that well and when I don't sleep well, it instantly adds about ten years to my age. Maybe even fifteen. I also, in some strange way, appear to shrink. In short (ha, ha), I looked like an elderly bag lady with chronic medical problems and bad dress sense.
Mind you, I did have a perfectly good chance to escape. As I rounded the corner to my sister's ICU cubicle and saw the microphones and cameras and all the other paraphernalia that clearly indicated television, I could have turned tail and ran, or at least hobbled, away. But the thing is I was so damn tired that nothing really registered and so I stood there, mouth agape, looking like an imbecile. Ergo: a perfect candidate for reality television.
And so now at some stage next year I get to see myself, in all my sartorial splendour, on a new Channel Nine medical documentary. I shall be the weird-looking one co-starring with the woman in the induced coma. And you know you've got problems when a person in a coma, just this side of the great divide, is looking far better than you are.