JAMES has been in hospital for several days now, very physically frail and utterly confused about where he is, and why...
But even as doctors have puzzled over the exact cause of the infection which has laid him so low, life has not been without its comic moments.
A diminutive Yorkshireman sitting by the bed next to James’ - dressed in outdoor clothes and evidently awaiting collection - engages Number 1 son and me in cheery conversation.
“You see that bag there,” he says, pointing to James’ holdall.
“That’s mine...”
Number 1 son, who towers over him, demurs gently but the tiny fellow will not be deflected.
He is unfailingly polite, anxious not to cause offence even, but still utterly determined to bag “his” bag...
“I tell you what,” he says generously, “how about you bring it over here. You can keep the bag if you want but I’ll just go through it and take out all the stuff that is mine...”
I point out the black plastic bin bag at his side and say ”But all your things are in there...”
He is the soul of kind and reasonable patience, but he is unswayed...
“I’ll tell you what we can do,” he says finally, in the spirit of friendly compromise, “I’ll take the bag home and if I find anything in it that isn’t mine, I promise I’ll bring it back...”
Less impressive is the willingness to compromise of the Occupational Therapy team when they ring the morning after James’ admission.
“I’m ringing about your husband’s Discharge Plan,” a very young-sounding therapist starts, but before he can get into his stride I interrupt him.
“He was only admitted last night,“ I tell him, “so I think any talk of discharge is a little premature don’t you?”
“But we need a Plan,” he says again, ignoring my assertion that until we know what sort of recovery James is likely to make, we really can’t begin to put together any sensible scheme for his future care.
I repeat, slowly, that my husband has a deep-seated infection which has not responded to antibiotics, that he is sleeping virtually 24 hours a day, has not eaten or poo-ed in five days and in the rare moments he is awake, is yelling and incoherent...
“But we...” comes down the phone again...
A growing and unworthy suspicion crosses my mind and I cut him off right there.
“Tell me George,” I ask, “have you actually seen my husband?”
There is a pause, and then he admits that he has not.
BUT WE STILL NEED A PLAN, he repeats maddeningly.
“Well as it happens George I DO have a plan,” I concede.
“I have been on duty 24/7 for the past year: so after one of the most exhausting weeks of my life I plan to get some sleep, and drink rather more gin than is probably good for me....
“And we will talk about your plan next week...”
Which I don’t think, strictly speaking, was quite the plan he had in mind...
Midsummer madness...
I love your response! I hate when someone sitting in the outfield tries to make calls up in the front. Poor guy, probably afraid to call again🤣 I hope you have gotten so e well deserved rest.
Well that made me chuckle, but I imagine it stunned George into silence. Enjoy your gin x