Copyright 2011 Annie Armitage
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
5 Weir Road
Kibworth Beauchamp
Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK
Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299
Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277
Email:
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 978 1848764 866
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset in 11pt Biook Antiqua by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
CRISIS
I opened my eyes.
Are you all right?a female voice asked gently. I tried to answer but couldnt make words of the thoughts inside my head. I wriggled, eventually managing to whine,
I -I -I need a wee.
The voice said soothingly, Dont worry, just do it Youre wearing an incontinence pad as a nappy, so it wont matter. I relaxed, feeling the damp warmth seeping between my legs. Then, opening my eyes again, I stared at the owner of the voice, but I couldnt make sense of what I saw. Then she was talking again, Youve been in a coma, so were moving you from Peterborough District Hospital to Addenbrookes Hospital in Cambridge.
I was finding the journey tedious in my damp nappy. The sun was streaming through the skylight in the roof of the ambulance. I thought, Ah! I have it, perhaps we could break the journey and stop for a picnic. Somehow I would have to put my thoughts into words.
C -c -c- could we stop for a picnic?
The ambulance woman sounded incredulous, Its January and its freezing outside.
The warmth of the heating had protected me from the winter cold, and even the urine in my damp nappy had retained its warmth. I slept until, eventually, we reached Cambridge and the ambulance doors were drawn back.
A male voice asked, Has she been all right?
Yes, shes been fine, was the response.
Indignantly I thought, how can she say Im fine when Im in this state? But now they gently moved the stretcher down the ramp, out of the ambulance, into a lift and onto a ward. Two nurses appeared and transferred me into a bed. A warm hand took mine and the ambulance woman said,
Take care, my love.
My education of life as a patient between the sheets had begun. Gradually, as the dimmer switch of consciousness increased in intensity, I became aware of my environment. Actually Id lost only three weeks of my life and fortunately, at that stage, I didnt realise what was going or what was ahead of me.
Only a month before it had been Christmas, but a very different Christmas to those that had preceded it. Shortly before the day my blonde, twenty-year-old student daughter, Sarah, arrived anticipating the festive season. All the cards had been written and posted and the fridge and freezer stocked with food. Carefully wrapped presents had been retrieved from their secret hiding places and placed under the tree, which my husband, Ian, had brought in from the garden. I could still recall the evocative smell of pine filling the sitting room, as Ian, at six foot tall, had no difficulty in reaching up to the tree and various other places that needed decorations to transform our modern, four-bedroom house into something of a winter wonderland.
Then, at the most inconvenient moment, the oven broke down and refused to work. Spare parts were not available at such a late stage in the festive season. It was Christmas Eve, so Ian, who is always good in an emergency, nipped out to buy cold meat for our Christmas lunch. The turkey was relegated to the freezer. My breathing had begun to deteriorate since early December and despite visits to the GP, had continued to worsen. By this time I was so breathless I couldnt participate in the preparations in any useful way. After all the excitement of Christmas, it mustve been a very disappointing time for everyone, as my relatively small frame lay gasping for breath on the sitting room sofa.
As soon as the Christmas holiday period was over, Ian drove me to see Don, the acupuncturist. Don felt for the four pulse levels of Chinese medicine, but didnt reach for the acupuncture needles. Instead he turned to Ian, saying,
Anne needs to be in hospital. Take her straight to her GP, may I phone to say she is on her way?
Ian must have agreed because when we arrived at the surgery we were shown straight into see Dr Doyle, my G.P. He stood up looking concerned and asked,
Would you be happy to come into hospital under the care of my next-door-neighbour?
Dr Doyles gentle voice with its soft Irish accent immediately made me feel secure. His presence exuded warmth and he was holding my hand while waiting for my response.
Dr Doyle always looked as though hed rushed out to a call during the night, hastily dressing in any clothes that came immediately to hand. On this occasion I felt so poorly that I would have accepted any suggestion with gratitude even if his next-door-neighbour had been an astrologist! In fact Dr Doyle lived next door to the consultant Dr Guttman, whose speciality was in heart and kidney medicine.
Ian drove me to Peterborough District Hospital and we were directed to Ward 2Y. I was shown to a bed in an eight-bed bay and Ian went home, relieved that I was in good hands. By that time I was out of it and quite unaware of what was going on. I presume the houseman must have admitted me. I lay in bed for a few days periodically coming round but becoming increasingly disorientated. This culminated one night in my going to the toilet and, on returning, climbing into the first unoccupied bed. The occupant had left it to meet her call of nature and was not best pleased to find my soporific body in her bed on her return.
My bad behaviour was reported to Ian the following day and I was moved into a single room; possibly as the result of my nocturnal wanderings, or maybe because my breathing had deteriorated into such a state of hyperventilation that it was disturbing the other occupants of the ward. Years later, I found out that my chief misdemeanour was masturbating during the night. The Ward Sister had confided in Carole, my friend, who at forty still maintained the appearance of a punk and, because of this, the Ward Sister felt able to share such delicate information with her.
