Lasse Toft’s 70 Things You Can Do While Being Hospitalized is a darkly comedic survival guide for patients enduring the monotony, fear, and discomfort of long-term hospitalization. Drawing from his six-month ordeal in hospitals, including time in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU), Toft delivers a book that is equal parts absurd, irreverent, and unexpectedly poignant. The subtitle, A Funny Mental Survival Guide for Every Patient, perfectly encapsulates its purpose: to arm readers with humour as a weapon against despair. The book’s central thesis, “FEAR CAN BE A PRISON. HOPE AND HUMOR IS YOUR KEY OUT,” underscores its mission—transforming a traumatic experience into something bearable, even laughable, through sheer audacity and creativity.

Toft’s suggestions range from the mischievous to the macabre, each designed to inject levity into the sterile, often dehumanising hospital environment. One standout proposal involves Dressing as the Reaper—donning a black robe and scythe, then informing fellow patients of their impending “appointments.” It’s a prank that toes the line between hilarity and horror, embodying the book’s unflinching embrace of gallows humour. Similarly, Faking Your Own Death is presented as a foolproof method to gauge staff loyalty or deter unwanted visitors. Toft recounts his own college-era fake heart attack during a physics class, a story that typifies his flair for theatricality. These ideas aren’t just jokes; they’re survival tactics, offering a sense of control in a setting where patients often feel powerless.

The book’s tone oscillates between playful and subversive, with Toft occasionally acknowledging his grudges against the system. He admits he might be “a little rough with some of the people working at the hospital” due to his “long and painful time” there, yet he balances this with profound gratitude: “It’s because of the profound knowledge of the staff that I’m still here today. I owe them everything.” This duality of resentment and reverence adds depth to what could otherwise be a shallow catalogue of pranks. His acknowledgement of hospital staff as “the heroes” tempers the book’s more rebellious streaks, reminding readers that humour is a coping mechanism, not a manifesto.

Some proposals are outright surreal, like Establishing Your Own Betting Company, where patients wager on each other’s survival odds, complete with insider trading via bribed nurses. Others are whimsically practical, such as Celebrating the Fastest Nurse with confetti cannons and loudspeakers—a tongue-in-cheek nod to the desperation of waiting for assistance. Toft’s regret over not appreciating his nurses enough, especially during humiliating moments like toilet aid, reveals the vulnerability beneath the bravado. His humour isn’t just defiance; it’s a way to process shame and fear.

The book’s more elaborate schemes, like Transforming the Patient Canteen into “Restaurant The Mediterranean Coast,” showcase Toft’s knack for turning mundanity into spectacle. With glitter dresses, fake moustaches, and repurposed bedpans, the idea is both ridiculous and oddly uplifting—a reminder that joy can be manufactured even in the bleakest places. Similarly, The Big Bathing Day reimagines hospital amenities as a luxury spa, complete with morgue corpses as “floating animals” in a makeshift pool. It’s grotesque, yes, but also a testament to the resilience of imagination.

Toft’s darker suggestions, like Creating a Spooky Night at the Hospital (complete with fake blood messages and rigged morgue drawers), walk a fine line between mischief and menace. Yet even these are framed as acts of camaraderie—scaring fellow patients “to make them feel more alive.” The book’s most outlandish ideas, such as Hitherto Unknown Job Opportunities (e.g., “Ketchup assistant” or “Coffin expert” publishing “Hot Coffins” magazine), lean into absurdity as a form of escapism.

Interspersed with these antics are moments of raw introspection. The chapter “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH” grapples with mortality, but Toft’s conclusion is strikingly hopeful: “You have got to try and focus on something other than your illness or injury.” His emphasis on kindness as a healing tool—” being good-natured to other people is actually key, in order for you to heal and get well again”—anchors the book’s chaos in something genuine. The closing anecdote, about a boy saving jellyfish one at a time (“Well, it made a difference to that one”), serves as a quiet metaphor for the book itself: small acts of humour and humanity matter, even in the face of overwhelming despair.

Critically, the book’s greatest strength is also its potential weakness. Its relentless absurdity may alienate readers seeking a more conventional self-help approach, and some suggestions (like Making Money Selling Hospital Inventory) flirt with ethical lines. Yet Toft’s intent isn’t to be prescriptive but cathartic—a way to laugh when laughter feels impossible. The book’s unapologetic silliness, paired with its undercurrent of gratitude, makes it a unique hybrid of satire and survival guide.

Stylistically, Toft’s writing is brisk and conversational, with footnotes adding personal anecdotes that ground the outlandishness. His humour is distinctly Scandinavian—dry, dark, and devoid of saccharine sentimentality. Quotes like “Humor really is the best—and sometimes the only—medicine” and “The only clown was me!” capture his ethos: laughter as defiance. Even the proposed t-shirt slogans (“I survived ICU and all I got was this t-shirt”) and epitaphs (“Doctor Death—coming to a ward near you soon”) reinforce the book’s blend of levity and rebellion.

In conclusion, 70 Things You Can Do While Being Hospitalized is not for the faint of heart. It’s a book that thrives on discomfort, turning pain into punchlines and hospital routines into guerrilla theatre. Yet beneath its chaotic surface lies a sincere message: fear is inevitable, but it doesn’t have to win. Whether readers take Toft’s suggestions literally or merely as inspiration to find their levity, the book succeeds as a testament to the power of humour as a lifeline. It’s a bizarre, brilliant, and unexpectedly touching ode to surviving the unsurvivable—one prank, one smiley face, and one fake death at a time.

Final Verdict: A riotous, heartfelt, and deeply unconventional guide that proves laughter might not cure illness, but it can sure make it easier to bear. Recommended for anyone who’s ever stared at a hospital ceiling and thought, “There has to be a better way.” Toft’s answer? There is—and it involves a scythe.

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Review by Alka for Active Reader