the C-word
For those who asked me if I had a good Christmas I had a new stock answer this year: no. I became more familiar than I wished to be with the psychogeography of Basildon hospital. The car park with sandbags lying around its edges like basking tumours. The sign explaining that money from parking fees is ‘directed to patient care’ (carefully allowing for the possibility that it might be distracted by something more straightforwardly enjoyable). The one big emergency we witnessed while we were there was when the parking barriers failed, and you could get in (or rather, out) for free. A team of surgeons was called out from some brain operation to deal with it, and they had it up and running in no time at all.
We went in at ground level, descended two floors, and could still look out the window and perceive ourselves to be on the ground. This, it turned out, was due to an optical illusion known as ‘the Thames Valley’. Few illusions remained inside. My Dad had what was meant to be a ‘fast recovery’ operation to remove ten inches of colon and a tumour. That was on 6th December. He’s still in there. It was the usual drill: you go in feeling reasonably healthy and wind up feeling, and looking, like you’ve been in a Japanese POW camp.
He can’t face anyone but the immediate family. We sit there around his bed, in silence sometimes, like in church, except the texts are less reassuring. Keep out of the reach and sight of children. Bile bag. His gaze tends to be inward. One day he told us that he’d had a really good morning. This was pleasing, until he explained that he’d thought he was at Ipswich golf club. That was the morphine. Some people see purple spiders, so he’s lucky. Except for the blockage caused, apparently, by a clip they put inside him that was meant to be ‘non-stick’, but which stuck. Except for the ongoing infection in the wound from the operation to cure the blockage.
On Christmas morning, when my Mum rang the hospital, he was described as ‘comfortable’. It isn’t something you’d wish anyone: a comfortable Christmas. And he was anything but, of course.
Given all this, I felt immune to Christmas this year. Though I still had to queue up in Marks and Sparks along with everyone else.
We went in at ground level, descended two floors, and could still look out the window and perceive ourselves to be on the ground. This, it turned out, was due to an optical illusion known as ‘the Thames Valley’. Few illusions remained inside. My Dad had what was meant to be a ‘fast recovery’ operation to remove ten inches of colon and a tumour. That was on 6th December. He’s still in there. It was the usual drill: you go in feeling reasonably healthy and wind up feeling, and looking, like you’ve been in a Japanese POW camp.
He can’t face anyone but the immediate family. We sit there around his bed, in silence sometimes, like in church, except the texts are less reassuring. Keep out of the reach and sight of children. Bile bag. His gaze tends to be inward. One day he told us that he’d had a really good morning. This was pleasing, until he explained that he’d thought he was at Ipswich golf club. That was the morphine. Some people see purple spiders, so he’s lucky. Except for the blockage caused, apparently, by a clip they put inside him that was meant to be ‘non-stick’, but which stuck. Except for the ongoing infection in the wound from the operation to cure the blockage.
On Christmas morning, when my Mum rang the hospital, he was described as ‘comfortable’. It isn’t something you’d wish anyone: a comfortable Christmas. And he was anything but, of course.
Given all this, I felt immune to Christmas this year. Though I still had to queue up in Marks and Sparks along with everyone else.
posted by martin at 2:24 PM
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