Virtually On Holiday

I'm virtually on holiday. By which I mean that I'm supposed to be in a cottage near Penrith in the Northern Lake District.

But tonight, my physical embodiment is back in Leeds.

We were all supposed to be going on holiday: Stephen and I, the Communist and my mother, Emily and Gareth. The cottage was booked in February, because the Communist always thinks that if he has a holiday booked, he'll have to be alive when it happens.

But then the Communist got ill: and indeed is still in hospital.

My mother was worn out by looking after him before he was taken into hospital. Emily has just done her A-levels through this very difficult time. We all needed a break. So I hit on a compromise: we would all go, and then I would dash back after the weekend to see how the Communist was getting on (and thanks to lovely Alex who visited him at every visiting time during the weekend).

But I just couldn't bring myself to tell my mother. All the others knew of my Cunning Plan, but my mother would have panicked, and worried about me driving All That Way, and would have thought she should come with me - - - so, having had a very enjoyable boat trip on Derwentwater this morning, and booked them all theatre tickets for Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf at the excellent Theatre by the Lake this evening, I left my family feeding the ducks, and fled back to my car, and drove off.

Not as self-sacrificing as it sounds, missing the play, for though I love theatre, my bad leg means that I find it very difficult to sit through a whole play without getting cramp, and my screams tend to annoy audiences rather. So I thought this was a good compromise, though I do feel bad about running off without explaining to my mother. It's just that her first reaction would have been "oh no, you can't possibly" - - and I was determined to go, because I wanted to see the Communist and to check up on his care.

And it was a good job I did. No visiting on Monday afternoons, because of ward cleaning, so my brother, who has come over from Amsterdam while we're in the Lake District, couldn't see the Communist until this evening.

Ward cleaning? The floor was covered in unidentified sticky liquid in which the Communist was paddling his feet, near to which lay one of his tablets, which he had dropped because his hands shake. The sticky liquid, we found out after some investigation, was probably a drink which the man in the opposite bed, who is somewhat confused, had thrown at a doctor some time earlier.

The Communist was miserable and wants to come home but actually any other reaction could be seen as definite signs of insanity. It's a grim, sad ward with some staff who really care and some who really don't.

Although we were told on Friday that the Communist is to be sent for an MRA scan, oh look, the doctor hadn't put him forward for it yet and it might take a couple of weeks to arrange. But, the nurse said chirpily, he's been written up for morphine tablets for the pain in his legs.

Now he was on morphine tablets, known as MST, a few weeks ago, and had a terribly bad reaction to it which very nearly killed him, and that was what got him taken into the nursing home, and thence to hospital, in the first place.

So I'm glad I came home to see him, even though my brother's here to visit every day, because it was good to see the old Communist, and because I was glad I was able to say NO! DON'T GIVE HIM MST!

Tomorrow I'm back to the Lake District, which is, as always, wonderful even in spite of the heavy showers: and to the rest of my family. It's hard being in two places at once.