Where was I?
Ah, yes, I was in Recovery, having spent a few hours in Blessed Oblivion on the operating table. The Youngest
of the Darling Daughters thinks it is somewhat selfish of me to crow about this, given that she spent my lost hours wandering the streets of Chichester with the weight of the world on her slender shoulders.
In Recovery, there is a great deal of noise as we recovering patients are urged to wake up. Someone keeps calling me Ethel, which rather worries me, as I always think that an Ethel must be of a Greater Age than I. No offence
intended, all you Ethels out there. It is possible, my clouded thoughts reassure me, that Ethel may be the patient in the neighbouring bed? I hope she wakes up soon...
In the background George Ezra is singing Young Morgan’s favourite song: “I’ll be riding shotgun / underneath a hot sun / feeling like a someone..” I imagine myself in the front seat of My Boy’s car, listening to Morgan’s
sweet piping voice from the back seat: “I could get USED to this!” No, George doesn’t sing that line in Recovery. It would be so inappropriate in every way.
Afterwards I wonder if that actually happened. Do they really play music in the Recovery Suite? Could someone, please, enlighten me?
I am unsure because,
having come over all unnecessary and been rushed into my hospital room with an army of Medical Types dancing attendance on me, I found myself in the middle of an Indian temple, all graceful arches of shimmering gold. I did realise it was a visual disturbance
but sought reassurance from the Youngest of the Darling Daughters who had arrived amidst the chaos and was looking decidedly below par herself. Was it, perhaps, the wallpaper, I queried but, no, given the delicate health of the NHS, wards tend not to be decorated
with fancy wallpaper gilded with gold leaf. On the wall facing my bed, a rather lovely picture of a girl in a floaty white skirt, lying in a hammock and reading a book. Intriguingly, she kept swinging out of the picture towards me, like the portraits and photographs
which come to life in the Harry Potter books. It was frustrating that I couldn’t quite see what she was reading.
Meanwhile, as my bed slid backwards and
forwards beneath me, my daughter decided to stage her own Diva Moment and was taken proper poorly. I could just see her out of the corner of my eye, having been made to lie down with her feet in the air: “Please don’t worry about me,” she
kept wailing, piteously, “just look after my Mum..”
Bless them, they looked after both of us, those wonderful doctors and nurses. The Indian temples
finally faded into nothingness, the girl in the hammock retreated into the picture frame, and my bed regained its composure. As so did I. The nurses offered my daughter a bed for the night but with work the next day she declined and set off instead on her
long journey home. “There she goes!” I thought to myself, full of gratitude but cross with myself for putting her through such an ordeal.
the long night that followed, the alarm kept going off on the machine which was monitoring my vital statistics. It sounded just like the bleeping of our faulty oven timer at home when I forget to turn it off before I go to bed. It was all I could do not to
try to jump out of bed and rush down the stairs before Mr B started hollering.
Next morning reinforcements arrived in the shape of the Middle of the Darling Daughters.
She came armed with Costa coffee and sweet delicacies and reinforced my wishes to be allowed out of hospital as soon as possible. There was a bit of a to-do while this option was argued about - but my X-ray showed everything was in position, more blood tests
proved I didn’t, after all, need blood transfusions, and, come the evening, I was on my way to the Y of the DD’s home where I was to spend the next few days recovering.
“You look a completely different person today!” remarked the nurse who had seen me at my worst the day before. I took it as a compliment because, as you know, I always think that is the best policy, whatever anyone says about me.
The Middle of the Darling Daughters tucked me into the front seat of her car and cranked up the heating. “Home, James, and don’t spare the horses!” I instructed
“I’ll be riding shotgun....”