Black Comedy
"Excuse me," asks Ted politely, tugging at my sleeve, "but could I borrow some money? I have to sign this document and take it back."
He hands me the document, which turns out to be a slipper. I thank him and point him gently in the direction of his bed. Ted spends most of his time tapping on the window or trying, in a somewhat disorganised way, to pack everything up to go home. He politely wanders out of the bay - "Excuse me, is it left or right here?" and then meanders as far as the nurses' station, where they intercept him and bring him back. Sometimes his wife, son and grandson, all perky and delightful, arrive and talk to him and he seems happy. But as soon as they've gone, he's back to his eternal packing and wandering, like a ghost.
"Um Um Um Um Um Um Um Um" says Mad George, in the opposite bed to the Communist. He spends much of his time making this sad, moaning noise. Occasionally the noise changes, and he vomits, loud and long. Sometimes I want to kill him to put him out of his misery. At other times I want to kill him to put me out of mine.
There are four beds in this bay of the ward. Opposite Polite Ted is Sane George Who Nicks the Television. A different George, this. There is only one television in the ward and Sane George keeps it all to himself, turned entirely towards his bed, so nobody else can see it. From time to time the nurses get fed up of George's television-hogging and unplug it and Sane George complains, loudly.
"Try pretending you're in a very bad sitcom, Dad," I said to the Communist. He laughed. After a few days on some strong drugs, which made the Communist so sleepy he could barely open his eyes, one of the drugs had worn off, and suddenly, here he was, back again, just as usual, when I never thought he would be.
"Did you bring me some orange juice?" asked the Communist. He asked for it yesterday, in the middle of what seemed to be a near-coma, and yet he remembered.
"The workmen outside cut through a pipe and cut off the water to the entire wing today," he said. "And I tried to get the radio and fell out of bed. How was Gareth's first day at work? How's Emily getting on now her exams have finished?"
Astonishing. It was like a miracle. Two hours we stayed: Emily and Gareth joined us: the Communist was awake and lucid the whole time.
"I want to go home," he said. On days like this, I very nearly dare hope that one day he might.
He hands me the document, which turns out to be a slipper. I thank him and point him gently in the direction of his bed. Ted spends most of his time tapping on the window or trying, in a somewhat disorganised way, to pack everything up to go home. He politely wanders out of the bay - "Excuse me, is it left or right here?" and then meanders as far as the nurses' station, where they intercept him and bring him back. Sometimes his wife, son and grandson, all perky and delightful, arrive and talk to him and he seems happy. But as soon as they've gone, he's back to his eternal packing and wandering, like a ghost.
"Um Um Um Um Um Um Um Um" says Mad George, in the opposite bed to the Communist. He spends much of his time making this sad, moaning noise. Occasionally the noise changes, and he vomits, loud and long. Sometimes I want to kill him to put him out of his misery. At other times I want to kill him to put me out of mine.
There are four beds in this bay of the ward. Opposite Polite Ted is Sane George Who Nicks the Television. A different George, this. There is only one television in the ward and Sane George keeps it all to himself, turned entirely towards his bed, so nobody else can see it. From time to time the nurses get fed up of George's television-hogging and unplug it and Sane George complains, loudly.
"Try pretending you're in a very bad sitcom, Dad," I said to the Communist. He laughed. After a few days on some strong drugs, which made the Communist so sleepy he could barely open his eyes, one of the drugs had worn off, and suddenly, here he was, back again, just as usual, when I never thought he would be.
"Did you bring me some orange juice?" asked the Communist. He asked for it yesterday, in the middle of what seemed to be a near-coma, and yet he remembered.
"The workmen outside cut through a pipe and cut off the water to the entire wing today," he said. "And I tried to get the radio and fell out of bed. How was Gareth's first day at work? How's Emily getting on now her exams have finished?"
Astonishing. It was like a miracle. Two hours we stayed: Emily and Gareth joined us: the Communist was awake and lucid the whole time.
"I want to go home," he said. On days like this, I very nearly dare hope that one day he might.
posted by Daphne at 10:15 pm
3 Comments:
Glad to get the update - although reading about the ward occupants and their shenanigans sent shivers down my spine.
It's a fine line at best between amusing eccentrics (when you can get away from them) and very annoying, sleep depriving, mentally challenged pains in the butt (who you are stuck with). Maybe being in a coma is nature's way of compromising.
Lets hope the scan results mean he'll be out soon.
Hello, Daphne. I very much enjoy reading your blog so I just wanted to pause to tell you so and to say "hello." Please tell your father that a young comrade in the USA sends him all best wishes.
oh that's great I'm so happy to hear he had a good day. I wish you many more to come. And I guess your sense of humour you inherited from your dad, it's the only way to get past the 'inmates'
Post a Comment
<< Home