I have a secret garden.
It's tucked away, behind the hospital, only reached by a maze of corridors. It's a long walk. By the time I get to the door and open it onto the real world I'm tired, but the second I feel the cold night air on my skin, carrying away the hospital-stench of sickness and decay, I relax.
It's quiet. The whirrs and beeps and shouts and buzzers all left far behind. There are benches around a beautiful statue and the borders are planted with rosemary, sage, roses, violets and bay. The trees give shade and remind me that they will still be here long after I've gone. As the buds start to form in spring I will be well again and Addenbrookes will be long forgotten.
No-one seems to remember it's there. It gives me the one thing no hospital can. Peace.
I always sit alone, relieved and grateful for the solitude, for the rare moments of escape and it's crossed my mind that maybe it doesn't really exist at all. Maybe, it's all in my mind.