Too Hot to Touch

 

Some moments in life arrive like raging fire. Unexpected, rapid and scorching.

Room C-6C-13, Sunway Medical Center.
30 September 2025. 6 p.m.

The fever didn’t rise—it erupted. One moment I was shivering cold, the next I snapped awake, burning alive by the demonic fire. Fire shot up my neck. Flames exploded across my face. Blazing—like the scene of transformation in Ghost Rider.

I shouted, “Why am I burning? I need a bath—now! I’m too hot!”

Nurse Nora rushed in. “What’s happening?!”

She checked the thermometer and exclaimed,
“Forty-two degrees. He’s definitely too hot to touch. Sponge him—I’m calling the doctor.”

Cold water hit my skin like salvation. The Ghost Rider faded. My mind returned.

“Did I shout at you all?” I asked.

Nora nodded. “Oh yes. Like you were possessed.”

I cringed.
Nora smirked. “It happens when you’re too hot to touch.”

Then came the decision: “We’re sending you to HDU.”

 

 

A new team arrived, led by Elizabeth. I needed more IV lines. But my veins had vanished. Six attempts, six failures.

Elizabeth sighed. “Your veins are too hot to touch. We need a central line.”

The doctor entered in full sterile gown. As drapes covered my face, I tightened my fist in fear.

Elizabeth held my hand. “Breathe. You’re safe.”

The insertion wasn’t sharp pain—just deep, unsettling pressure. But the fear was sharper. When the line was finally secured, relief washed over me.

“So… am I still too hot to touch?” I asked.

“You’re stable,” she said. “But the doctor wants a urine catheter.”

My heart sank. I had suffered a urethral injury before during catheter insertion—three days of bleeding. The trauma is still fresh.

“Any alternatives?”

“No,” she said gently. “Not when you’re too hot to touch.”

I sighed. “Please be gentle. He is my pride and dignity.”

“Deep breath.”

Smooth. Successful. Still—no man would want to celebrate that moment.

 

 

Hours later came the real nightmare.

Sudden dizziness. The tunnel closing in. My breaths shrinking into tiny puffs. My body slipping—not fainting, but letting go.

Alarms exploded.

Nurses rushed in.
A doctor burst in, firing orders:

“Respiratory rate dropping—check the airway!”
“SpO₂ 86… 82… oxygen now!”
“Blood pressure 60 over 40—push fluids!”

Their voices bent and echoed, like I was underwater.

Hands turned me. A mask sealed onto my face. Cold oxygen blasted in. Lights blurred then dimmed.

Through the chaos, I heard Elizabeth,
“Fight back. You’re still too hot to touch.”

That tiny joke—half humour, half hope—pulled me toward life.

Numbers began to climb:

“Pressure 80/50… 90/55!”
“SpO₂ at 92—good!”

Slowly, the storm eased. Breath returned. The world sharpened.

“You almost gave us a heart attack,” Elizabeth said. “Still too hot to touch… but alive.”

 

 

Days later, I was ready for discharge—except for one last hurdle: urine catheter removal.

Nora came in with a teasing grin.
“Good news—you’re no longer too hot to touch. Bad news—this may sting.”

“Please be gentle. He is my pride and dignity.” I pleaded.

“Deep breath.”

A swift pull. Ouch. And Nora held up the catheter like a trophy.
“There. Freedom.”

 

Between the raging fever, the hiding veins, the urine catheter, and the near-death crash, ‘too hot to touch’ became the strange thread connecting me to the nurses who saved me.

They fought for me when I couldn’t fight.
They hold me when I was falling.
They stayed until I could stand and walk out.

Because of these nurses professionalism, beauty and intelligence, I walked out alive. For that, I am eternally grateful.

 

And that’s why I can be here today to say:

“I am too hot to touch.”