“laminated book of dreams”

Back in the haematology department. Sitting in a packed hospital waiting room. It’s like sitting in Argos having paid for your purchase. You perch on wooden chairs awaiting your number to be called. Here you have paid with blood but were offered no “laminated book of dreams”. Instead, you shift on your seat, arm to arm, with fellow inmates awaiting your possible "laminated folder of uncomfortable treatments". With good fortune, the many vials of blood they’ve sent away will contain nothing vile.

I’m in a holding pattern. My blood is not normal and this has been the case for many months. If today’s results show no change I shall be free for a whole year from hospital visits. I am filled with both hope and fear. My liver sort of stopped working over a year and a half ago and weird proteins flooded my system. My liver function has recovered greatly and it seems as if my system has also begun to recover. Except for these pesky proteins. They keep being mass produced by an immune system that feels it’s still under threat. So, these tests have been happening regularly and each time I feel a fraud. Sitting like a healthy cuckoo among the nest of smaller weaker birds.  Normally the cuckoo lays its eggs in another bird’s nest and when the intruder egg hatches it rapidly disposes of the rest of the eggs by pushing them out.  But here it is the cuckoo, I, who is examined by its fellow inmates with suspicion.  So, I sit trying not to be intimidated out of the nest by those much sicker than me.

A year and a half ago my weight plummeted and I wanted to sleep all the time. I knew something wasn’t right. One, I don’t lose weight I gain weight. It’s what my body does. Two, I used to sleep only at night. Strangely, now, I have put on weight but cannot sleep even at night. It’s as if my body is playing silly beggars with its symptoms. One minute this the next minute that, a confusing peekaboo affair. I might be morphing into hypochondriac mode. I want to ask is mental confusion a symptom. Disappearing keys, handbags and glasses are they characteristic of a physical complaint? I try to put milk into cupboards instead of the fridge. Forget why I entered rooms and what I did yesterday. But all of these pales into insignificance when I compare them to not being able to sleep. Staring at the ceiling counting down the hours to dawn. Even that has changed. I used to stare bleary-eyed at my bedside clock disbelieving that it was 3 am and I was still awake. Now, I frequently am heartened that it is 4.30am and dawn has begun at last. Instead of thinking precious hours of sleep are being lost I am just so relieved the night is over. I may not have slept the whole night but at least the bloody thing has ended.

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My brother suggested meditation as a way of passing the long hours. Then, as we discussed it he confessed that the main problem with meditating at night is the miserable bugger you discover in those quiet reflective moments. You! There is nothing to distract you from yourself. It is a horrific moment of self-discovery and not a good substitute for deep oblivion in dreamtime. Ahh … my test results are ready, got to go.

PS bloods are all good! Hurrah!!!

Three things that bring happiness!

I read recently that the three things that make most people happy are

Going to sleep in a freshly changed bed

Feeling the sun on your face

 and the third was experiencing acts of unexpected kindness from strangers

I found this quite cheering. I honestly didn’t think that these things would be high on most people’s list.  Mind you, what makes you happy really depends on what you have experienced previously.  For example, if you have been in hospital visiting a loved one the one thing that will tick all your boxes is their speedy recovery and return home.  Alternatively, if you yourself have had a severe accident or illness and are at present stuck in hospital you probably have a much more basic and immediate wish list.

to be able to pass urine or stools - it is a little known fact that under severe trauma the body shuts off what it sees as unnecessary options and all things toilet fall under that

being flat on your back unable to turn means your desire to be able to turn onto your side becomes an exquisite luxury and sitting up unaided a distant goal

the dependence on others is such a reminder of one’s intolerable situation that any degree of regaining your own ability to wash, eat and move is seen as a tremendous step forward

It always amazes me that hospital life when you are in one, constricts to become your whole world.  When you manage to leave it is as if you find yourself in a different part of the universe.  These two places exist together but there is some mental moat that cuts us off from hospitals perhaps to protect us.  To remember those lying in hospital beds struggling with pain and fear is too much to assimilate on a daily basis so we edit it out.  That seems to make things much better.  But such choices often mean we are not seeing the world we actually live in.  Children and young people are  no longer taken to visit the dying or elderly in hospital.  It is considered too traumatic for them to contemplate such things.  Yet pretending such things do not exist or happen does not prepare them for their own life’s journey.  We can botox and facelift all we like, eventually things do not go well.  Hanging onto youth is a waste of time.  Ageing is remorseless.  As a witty old uncle whispered to me at a family gathering, “This ageing is not for ginnies!”  (ginnies - those with a nervous disposition/cowards)  It was the same uncle who over heard me criticising Northern Ireland politics and announced, “It’s a poor bird that shits in its own nest!”  

There are those who do not forget the reality of hospital life, who choose a different path.  My mother’s neighbour here used to be a Dr Blair.  He was a minister and his wife was suffering from dementia.  Regularly she would come to my parent's door and demand to be let in.  Dr Blair would come round and kindly lead her home apologising graciously.  Dr Blair was ill himself and a great age.  He walked with difficulty and much pain.  You felt he was not long for this world.  But each day he visited the wards of the local hospital going from bed to bed having sweet conversations.  I once sat and listened as he spoke to a dying man in the next bed.  This was no lecture full of brimstone and fire threats.  He talked honestly and listened.  He let them discuss death and what they feared and felt.  He did not rush to reassure with words.  He held hands and stroked shoulders.  He asked about their loved ones, about their life, asked if they wanted water or a fan.  When he spoke about dying, it was as if he too would soon be taking that final journey and the two of them were just fellow travellers on a well worn path.  He mentioned his own feelings and failings.  There was laughter too, unexpected and raw.  Usually, because Dr Blair was not good on his feet and fell quite often.  He would apologise for his bleeding head, knee or hand with the same expression, “I’m sorry, I know I’m a terrible sight but there you go!” I couldn’t understand why this was greeted with howls of laughter by the patients around him.  But after a week, I too found his bloodied presence therapy for mind and soul.  I think it was his total humility and refreshing honesty - it brought a fresh breeze into the ward.  He made us all want to be better human beings in whatever time we had left to us.  So perhaps I agree with that first list of things that make us happy and Dr Blair was a perfect example of a stranger showing unexpected acts of kindness.  May your life be touched by just such a stranger.