Short Shorts & Longer Tales

by John Muir

  **********

  BOWLS OPENING DAY

  I had emerged enough from the hazy existence of the pain-killers and anaesthetics of the previous three weeks to realise there was a routine going on around me. Big hospitals are like that. They must have organisation and routine to operate at minimum efficiency.

  It is only the inconsiderate patients having heart attacks; admittance at inappropriate moments; babies not arriving as scheduled, or taking too long to be born; and the inconsistencies of an accident and emergency ward that upsets interns and nursing staff.

  Hospitals, I am sure, would run far more efficiently without patients.

  Though confined as a total 'bed rest' patient, I was able to watch all those intricate things going on around me. What I could not see I imagined from the sounds generated.

  I was obviously now healthy enough and ready to be transferred from 'Intensive Care.'

  It was a mid-afternoon when I was wheel-chaired into the furthest room of the new ward. Not an evil place as you might consider. In fact it was the best room in the ward. Quite capable of easily fitting six beds, it only had one. Mine.

  The other patients I could see in my wheelchair journey all seemed to be old. Old that is in comparison my early thirties. The fleeting glimpses through the doors of the side rooms showed some patients connected to heart machines or other equipment.

  Initially, the still slightly hazy thought processes read many suspect reasons into the types of connections. My bed had the standard iron frame surrounding it with curtains attached, ready to be drawn closed for privacy from outside prying eyes. "Privacy from what?” I wondered. I was the only one in the room. There were no monitors or suchlike intrusive machines in the vicinity to be attached to my body.

  The room was not quite as Spartan as my description so far suggests. Eight comfortable looking easy-chairs, or single-seat lounges, were close to the two outside walls next to the ducted central heating water pipes.

  Perhaps ill-described as walls, as above the level of the heaters was a shelf broad enough to sit on, and the shelf was the base of the windows which ran from the shelf right up to the ceiling and the full width of the wall. Excepting of course at the corners where structural support existed.

  This ward was on the fourth level; all of the surrounding buildings were a maximum of three levels. From a prone position, through one window I could see the distant hills away to the east from where the sun would rise. The other window was already giving the full benefit of the afternoon winter sun. It was a gloriously sunny winter's day. My bed was backed up against the only solid wall.

  The fourth wall was broken by the entry door to my room. Not just a standard double door as the other rooms had, but a three-fold door, only one of which was open. This was a little annoying as it meant I had to lean right forward in my bed to see what was happening in the corridors of the ward.

  For privacy I could lean back and become unseen except for the foot end of the bed, and could sleep as and when I pleased. That was what I thought anyway.

  A hand basin with a soap dispenser above it, elbow- operated taps with a single faucet, a hot air drier and a dry roll towel dispenser were the only other features of the fourth wall.

  Those of you who have been in a bed in hospital for any reason will know. There is a highly secret society in action within hospitals to make them noisier places than a site of road-workers hired to intermittently use jack-hammers.

  I knew I must be recovering well, because a few days prior to this I had been totally unaware of my surroundings, or any noise. I could not even remember if my previous room had a window. I had not cared.

  For now I had the penthouse.

  My private musings about my new surroundings did not last long. A trolley wielding nurse entered the room with a beaming smile on a pretty face.

  "Mr. Plover. How are we today?" she greeted me.

  "You look alright. As for me I thought that was what I was here to find out."

  "Ooh I can see we have a cheeky one here," she replied.

  That introductory greeting question from the nurses seemed standard; but my sarcastic replies had developed only over the last few days. Some of these uninvited visitors that came had caused me physical pain. I had become alert enough to recognise those faces, and to analyse from their conversation anything which might mean I was going to suffer more pain.

  She was a new face, not surprisingly. I was in a new ward and the nurses in the previous ward would obviously not have transferred with me. I tried to vary my responses with originality to this same question with each successive nurse. Sometimes a new nurse would mean a different procedure in the degree of applying pain. So each new face was met with a little suspicion, until after they had done their deed and I was able to assess their performance on the pain, or pleasure scale.

  I knew what the routine was. The nurse would take my wrist for 30 seconds apparently to read my pulse. One of the first things an observant man can learn is about the deception nurses use. Only the first ten seconds are to read your pulse. In the remaining 20 seconds the nurse watches the rise and fall of your chest to check your respiration.

  This nurse was cute and young. It was her first visit with me, so I decided I would be on my best behaviour. I breathed normally which allowed my natural heart beat to be read and respiration to be visible. There was also the next procedure to follow which I did not enjoy. So I did not want to upset her before she showed her ability.

  Satisfied with the pulse and respiration, she made the relevant notes on the chart.

  "O.K. Roll over please."

  It was one of the parts I hated about the routine; four-hourly injections, into the buttocks. That was six times a day including being woken at night. This was one of the 'pain' feature tests on which I would judge the nurses suitability to be concubine of mine in a future life.

  "Ooh," she said. "Quite a lot of bruising. I'll try and find a fresh spot."

  There are "spear-throwers" and there are "spear-throwers". Some nurses can give almost painless needle injections. Sometimes needles are blunt. A good nurse will recognise a blunt needle immediately it fails initial gentle penetration. They will generally try another needle. Others do not care how blunt it is. They would still use a twenty centimetre long needle with a point as blunt as a vacuum cleaner nozzle, then inject the contents at the same rate as a Boeing 747 burns up fuel. That hurts.

  It does not take long to remember which nurses are welcome as part of your four-hourly buttocks-up routine.

  This nurse was a good "spear-thrower." I would behave.

  For some of the others, I would intentionally hyperventilate when they were not watching before they took my pulse and then secretly hold my breath. This meant my pulse fluctuated wildly and they were unable to get a reading of my respiration. Many were puzzled and just wrote the same data on the chart that had been previously recorded. Others would proceed with the injection; then depart only to return a few minutes later to re-check my pulse and respiration again. I would be fully compliant the second time to avoid possibly having my secret discovered.

  Alone again, after her departure I would have undisturbed privacy for a short while. Then in the distance I could hear the unmistakable sound of the food-trolley for the evening meal.

  Though hospital food, all in all, is not that great. I recalled my visits to the zoo before the feeding time of the carnivores. It used to amaze me to see the heightened arousal of the lions, or tigers, when they could hear the feeding-truck in the distance. A truck, to all intents and purposes should sound like any other truck working the zoo area. But the carnivores could tell the difference, just as I knew it was the dinner-trolley and not any of the other dozen or so trolleys used in the ward.

  But what was the routine? Was I going to be the first, or the last fed? I was furthest from the entry to the ward. The continuous clattering sound meant that it was not stopping at the other rooms. This joyous non-stopping sound meant they were heading straight for
me first.

  A chubby faced female head looked around the edge of the door.

  "Just one?" she asked as she looked around the room.

  I guess if I had not been food-deprived, and quicker in my thought processes, I might have replied; "the others have gone to the toilet for a moment, may I order for all five of them?" The presence of only one bed in the room was also a strong clue that I would have been lying.

  Instead I just replied; "yes please."

  When her whole body came through the door I realised that it was possibly only slightly overweight, but the legs were so slim they would seemingly break if she jumped and had to land back down on them. The trace of her nice smelling perfume as she approached would have aroused me under different circumstances.

  She looked at my patient chart with greater interest and intensity than any of the physicians, surgeons, doctors or nurses had done so when they visited me.

  "I see there are no diet restrictions on your chart. So, what would you like?"

  'Yes,' I thought. 'This is the penthouse. I've struck the jackpot.'

  "Crayfish mornay with a selection of roasted vegetables and a few crispy chips thanks."

  She burst out laughing with a joy that I had not heard for a long time.

  "No," she got out between the subsiding giggles. "I've only got......"

  As she spoke the choices of five basic meals I realised that though I was in the penthouse I was still eating food from the church 'soup kitchen.'

  "And you can have a pudding," she added.

  I picked whatever it was with ice cream.

  After putting my selections on my bed-tray she left.

  "See you tomorrow night," she called back over her shoulder.

  "Thanks," I replied. "See you then."

  Strange? I could never remember hearing the sound of a departing food trolley. I suppose it could be because my attention was always diverted to the meal.

  Dinner finished, I sat back to enjoy the view. Winter does not allow a long time between sunset and darkness. That had happened in the short time this carnivore had devoured the fat-trimmed lamb chops and over-cooked vegetables, dessert of low-cal ice cream and skimmed milk fat free custard. I looked under the plate just in case those removed parts had been put there. I was not going to leave a tip.

  The distant hills were no longer visible. They must have departed for their places of night rest while I was not watching. I knew though they would return before sun-up tomorrow just to make the picture the same as it had been earlier. Blackness had already drawn her curtains across my windows.

  I fished around the headboard and located the air-line style ear-phones. There was only one station. It was playing only instrumental music. The choices never being songs you could sing along to. It was quite understandable really. It would be most inappropriate for some patient to burst into song and sing horribly out of key, as people tend to do under ear-phones. Even worse if the patients of one room started singing Queens' 'We will rock you', while a distraught family sat beside vigil with a dying patient in the next room.

  My eyes were closed as I listened to the disinfected music. Even though my ears were muffled by the ear-phones, I could hear the approach of the trolley coming to collect the dinner crockery and cutlery. This job was always done by a ward nurse, never the food deliverer.

  At 6:00 p.m., it was the change of shift from the day staff to the night staff. Some people are just naturally either day people or night people.

  The ward nurse who entered to collect my dinner utensils was obviously a day person, and was not looking forward to spending the next 12 hours over-night in a hospital tending to sick and sometimes demanding patients.

  She walked in, immediately going to the windows and pulling the long heavy drapes across the windows. Then walking to my bed snatched the bed tray with the dinner utensils and headed for the door.

  "I think the bed-tray stays here," I called after her.

  "I was bringing it back," she snapped.

  She returned the tray to the box at the foot of the bed and left without any further conversation. I tried to assess the number of nurses on duty in this ward and my chances of being "speared" by this one at my 8:00 p.m. or 2:00 a.m. buttocks presentation. That would reveal if there was a God or not. That is, if he was not busy somewhere else in this same hospital at that time.

  The 8:00 p.m. injection was given by a non-descript humourless-by-pass nurse with a surprisingly gentle touch. She went on the tick side of the ledger.

  Soon after 9:00 p.m., another nurse entered. She was Asian, nice body, obviously had black hair, wore thick glasses and was barely five feet tall. I imagined she was quite attractive under the glasses. She smiled as she picked up the urine bottle beside the bed.

  "Still empty?" she said in clipped English. "You don't want to pee pee? Then I get you a new bottle."

  Though Asian, she was not Japanese or Chinese.

  "Not yet. Are you from Thailand?" I asked.

  "Close. Malaysia."

  "K.L.?"

  "No. Johore Bahru. Have you been to my country?"

  "Not yet. One day I will. Maybe you can take me."

  She smiled again as she gave me the two sleeping pills. I knew the routine. I had to swallow them while she was watching. I casually threw them into my mouth as she gave me my glass of water. I quickly slipped them under my tongue and took a couple of swallows of water. Then as silent proof of my having swallowed, I opened my mouth wide for her cursory inspection. She was not wearing any wedding ring.

  "O.K.," she said. "I'll be back at 9:30 p.m. for lights out."

  I nodded my response with a closed-mouth grin as she left the room, then slipped the pills out from under my tongue and put them in a handkerchief in the bedside drawer. I did not want to develop a sleeping pill habit. But if I needed them I would take one later.

  Dutifully she returned at 9:30 p.m.

  "Goodnight," she said, as she switched off the light just inside the doorway.

  "I've warmed your side of the bed," I answered.

  "That's nice. I'll phone my husband and tell him that we can all be warm together."

  She departed silently.

  After waiting for a few minutes, I slipped both my legs off the side of the bed and gently put my feet on the floor. Steadying myself with my bruised buttocks against the side of the bed I balanced on my muscle wasted legs. I had never been able to urinate into a bottle while sitting in a bed. With great satisfaction I relieved my bladder, and placed the bottle on the floor, covering it with the small towel provided.

  I changed my mind about the sleeping pills, un-wrapped them, and swallowed both without water.

  Getting back under the sheets, and surprisingly efficient single blanket, I eased my head onto the pillow and listened to the wind starting to build outside. Tomorrow would be an interesting day I felt sure. I could do all the exciting things like comparing the routine of this ward with that which I could remember from the previous ward. At 2:00 a.m. the grumpy nurse woke me surprisingly gently, took my pulse and respiration, and did a quite caring spear-throwing job. I barely noticed it happening.

  What seemed like minutes later the lights were switched on. I sat up quickly wondering what was wrong. I saw two female nurses pulling back the curtains. Their voices almost simultaneously said "Good morning."

  “Thank you God,” I thought, “A ménage a trios. But why did you pick a time when I’m too sick to manage it?”

  With the curtains open I could see it was still dark outside.

  Through bleary eyes I tried to see the time on the wall clock.

  "What time is it?"

  "Nearly 5:30," replied one.

  I waited to see what routine they had come in to perform. They simply leaned against the warm ducted-heaters, and ignoring me, chatted between themselves.

  Over the next twenty minutes, another seven or eight nurses arrived, all carrying their own personally-named cups of tea or coffee, and warmed themselves again
st the heaters. I realised that this must the incoming staff for the day-shift, starting at 6:00 a.m. My room was obviously the one they used to gather in before formally going on duty.

  At 5:50 a.m., they all left together. Each one walked past the end of my bed with a farewell to me of some type.

  Room now empty, I took this possibly rare opportunity to put my feet on the floor and relieve my bladder. The floor was stone cold in contrast to the central-heated air in the room. It was a pleasure to get back into bed.

  I was tired after the early wakening. Maybe still sleeping pill affected. The dawn was revealing a new day. It was cloudy with rain in the distance. The far away hills had not returned after all. Wisely they stayed away from what looked to be the start of a lousy weather day.

  Soon after 6:00 a.m., another buttocks spear-thrower arrived. She might as well have used the vacuum cleaner tube.

  Sadist bitch! Another one that I put on my unwritten list to kidnap after my recovery, and put through a torture chamber of horrors so evil that I still yet had to consider what instruments of pain I would use.

  6:45 a.m., the pill dispenser arrived with his trolley of drawers full of drugs to make both a drug addict and a hypochondriac joyously happy. Two palm-sized stainless steel trays were welded to the trolley handle. Each contained a small saucer sized and shaped stainless steel plate with a pourer.

  A bright blue clipboard swung on the trolley handle. He took his clipboard from the handle, went to the end of the bed, and examined my patient chart. Every couple of seconds he would nod and hum a quiet note of approval.

  I am sure I would have felt quiet uneasy if I saw him suddenly inhale a deep noisy breath through his teeth and nod his head negatively in disapproval.

  He replaced my patient chart and flicked over a few pages attached to his bright blue clipboard.

  "Mr. Plover?"

  The sudden boom of his deep and loud voice caused my heart to skip a beat in fright.

  "Yes," I replied.

  He put the clipboard on the foot end of the bed, began opening selected drawers in the trolley, selecting bottles from the drawer, and setting them on a sunken tray on the pusher side of the handle.

  Pouring each type of pill I had been prescribed onto the right palm tray, he would count them a second time, then pour them onto the left palm tray. On finishing, he returned all his bottles to their relevant drawers.

  Moving to the right side of my bed, he collected the nearly full glass and took it to the sink and emptied it. Returning to my bedside, he filled the glass from the pewter jug, and handed me the glass. Proffering the tray containing the pills he said; "palm please," and poured them all into my palm.

  Ten pills again. There were more colours than a pack of jelly-beans. Throwing them all into my mouth at one time I took a gulp of water, and they all went down.

  The pill dispenser opened his mouth intending me to copy.

  "I don't see any need for fillings there," I wisecracked.

  With his dead-pan reaction and unexpressive eyes, I realised that I was flogging a dead horse and obliged, though wishing I had cheated and kept a couple hidden under my tongue just to get one over him.

  Next he opened his mouth again and lifted his tongue. I was suddenly pleased I had not tried to cheat. This guy probably got his laughs from giving the wrong pills, like giving diarrhea to a sufferer of piles or someone who had just had a rectum operation.

  Having completed his task, this 'communication king' wheeled his trolley out. I felt sorry for the guy. He would never have much success opening his own pharmacy.

  7:15 a.m. I heard the approach of the food trolley. This briefly cheered me. The high spirits ceased immediately I realised the stop-start sound meant that all the rooms closer to the ward entry were being fed first. I would be last.

  So far, this day was giving all the signs of being a bad day.

  When the breakfast trolley arrived it was not the same Ms. Giggly of the previous evening.

  "Good morning," she said with a toothpaste advertising smile, picking up my chart.

  "Good morning," I responded.

  "Lucky thing," she said, "no special diet." Then just as suddenly, "Oh dear. All the non-diet stuff has gone."

  Under my breath I muttered "shit," then for some reason thought of the pill-dispenser.

  "I'm sorry, this is the best diet meal I've got left. But I'll give you a couple of extra bits of toast."

  "Thanks," I replied conditionally appreciative.

  "I'll see what I can keep you for lunch, if your chart doesn't change."

  "That would be great." I could really fall in love with this nurse.

  "See you later then." She turned the trolley and departed.

  "'Bye," I called out loudly, trying to sound really sexy, as she passed through the door.

  Then I tasted what was on the plate and decided that I would save my thoughts of undying love until after lunchtime.

  In less than 20 minutes she was back to collect the tray and I felt guilty about leaving the plate of 'whatever' virtually untouched.

  "Not hungry?" she queried.

  "No," I lied. "I just felt like pigging out just on toast," I half lied, "but thanks anyway."

  Smiling, she picked up the offending meal, empty side plates, empty tea cup and departed.

  All of this had happened already, and it was not even 8:00a.m. I simply wanted to go back to sleep, but I knew the hospital routine well enough to know that was an impossibility. Those who were able to sleep were those who were too ill to be aware of their surroundings. I was aware of my surroundings so I knew my health had improved remarkably.

  About 8:15a.m., a very quiet trolley wheeled into the room pushed by a tiny black haired lady I guessed to be in her late forties. At first glance I thought she was Asian, but not Chinese, Japanese, or Korean. She nodded toward me, and smiled as she pushed her trolley to the middle of the room; then began to dust the shelf under the window, humming quietly to herself.

  She was efficient and fast, quickly wiping over the chairs and the areas of the walls she could reach. The hand basin was thoroughly wiped over with disinfectant, as were all the handles of the doors and anything likely to be touched by hand.

  As she began to wipe down the iron frame around the bed I decided to speak.

  "Hello."

  "Eello," she responded. "No Inglesh."

  "O.K., O.K., never mind."

  She carried on, wiped both bedside tables, and trolley, and was gone.

  Another area of nature was making its call on me pretty much at the regular time. As I rang my buzzer for assistance I once again thought of 'Mr Personality', the pill dispenser. I was careful not to press the emergency buzzer.

  I had accidentally done that just once; in the previous ward when I was still in the hazy disoriented and unreal world of pain-killers and other drugs. It was meant to request an escorted wheelchair assistance to take me to the toilet.

  Then, within seconds, nurses and aides appeared and began checking me all over for the problem. A puffing doctor tore open the front of my pyjamas and slapped a stethoscope on my chest.

  Even through my doped-up haze I wondered what was happening. Had I suddenly suffered from something I was not aware of but the staff had somehow picked up. Within a few seconds everyone realised it was a false alarm. As each member left the room they shot me a glance of disgust. The sister stayed, and, through my haze, tried to give me a lecture on the importance of only using the emergency button for an emergency.

  This time there was no confusion. An aide entered, helped me into the wheelchair and into the toilet. In the toilets you were allowed to close the door but not lock them. Because the door hinges were spring loaded to keep them in an open position it always required one hand to keep the door closed.

  Toiletries completed, I was returned to my room.

  Except for the personnel changes, and the gathering of the nurses’ coven at 5:30 a.m., the routine had so far been the same.

 
; Normally, and with a bit of luck, there would be time for a brief doze before the "bed bath" people did their rounds. I carefully slid down under the sheets trying to reduce the pain to my dart-board used buttocks.

  As I reached for the earphones a white-jacketed man, stethoscope hooked around his neck with the drag end tucked into his left waist pocket, entered the room. On seeing me, he nodded in my direction, and then proceeded to the window, felt the warm bars of the water heaters and sat in one of the easy chairs.

  Minutes later two more white-jackets entered, stethoscopes hooked around their necks and drag ends tucked into their left had waist pockets. They nodded in my direction and moved toward the sitting white-jacket who stood up.

  "Good morning doctor."

  "Good morning doctor."

  "Good morning doctor."

  "Good morning doctor."

  My chin fell at this little charade and I smiled to myself.

  They had barely begun their 'doctor-speak' when two more entered. The three already in the room turned to greet the newcomers, stethoscopes hooked around their necks with the drag end tucked into their left waist pockets.

  "Good morning doctor."

  "Good morning doctor."

  "Good morning doctor."

  "Good morning doctor."

  "Good morning doctor."

  And so it went on until each had greeted the other individually. I could not suppress my laugh any longer. They looked at me. I am sure I went red with embarrassment.

  "I'm sorry," I said pointing at the earphones. "It's just there was something funny on the radio," I lied. I sat up unable to take the pain in my now throbbing lung and aching buttocks. I was sure I had seen this played out in and old Marx Brothers or Abbott and Costello movie.

  As I enjoy little mental calculations as a past-time, I started to calculate how many 'good morning doctors' would have passed between them, then gave it up as I knew I would need a calculator.

  When three more white-jackets entered, I totally lost control. Despite my severe pain, for a few brief seconds, I roared my laughter out loud in anticipation of what was to come. All the doctors were looking at me incredulously.

  When I had recovered sufficiently I pointed to the earphones. "God it's a funny show." Tears caused my vision to blur. I hoped that none of them could hear the music of Mozart's Mass in C, "Missa Solomnous" emerging from the earpiece.

  One of those in the last group to enter said, "Right gentlemen, we're all here, let's get the day under-way."

  Unlike Lady MacBeth's guests, they left in the order of their coming, and I was alone again. Wiping the tears from my eyes I was still in considerable pain from the laughing. I lay back and with a hand pushing hard on each ribcage, I tried to control my breathing to ease the pain.

  It was after 9:15 a.m. The 'bed-bath' nurse with her bed massage hands was running late.

  Resplendent in full nursing uniform, a face I recognised came through the door.

  "Good morning Mr. Plover," she cheerily said as she came toward the bed.

  "Margaret," I replied, "Great to see you after all these years."

  "Matron Taylor," she said. "This is my ward. I just thought I would pop in and say hello, and maybe set a few ground-rules."

  "It really is good to see you."

  "And to see you too."

  "Ward matron and all eh? I didn't know you'd gone into nursing."

  "Certainly did. Just to avoid any embarrassment for me, if staff are around, please call me Matron. It all has to be very formal," she said as she took my hand and checked my pulse.

  "Sure. No problem. Hell you're still looking good."

  "Cut the crap Mr. Plover, we're both over twenty years older since High School days." At least she managed a smile as she said it. "And don't you give my nurses a hard time."

  "No. I won't embarrass you. You can count on that."

  "I know." That was said with an edge of steel.

  Another nurse wielding another trolley entered the room and waited by the door.

  Matron Taylor released my hand. "I'll pop by later," she said as she turned and walked away.

  "Thanks Matron," I called after her.

  She turned at the door, and nodded her appreciation. She made sure the young female nurse was not looking, gave me a wink, and left.

  "Your bath Mr. Plover," said the new arrival.

  "Wonderful. Thank you, James. Please lay out my formal dinner jacket. I think I might pop into the club afterwards for a couple of G & T's."

  The nurse briefly looked at me from the corners of her eyes. "You're joking, right?"

  "Lighten up nurse," I responded. "Don't you know that there's death all around you in a hospital."

  "I know," she said. "Six of our long term patients in this ward passed away last night. So sad for all their families."

  "Oh hell, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make light of it all."

  "Gotcha," she said, and she burst into laughter.

  "We've been warned about you," she said with the smile still reflected in her eyes. Now. Shall I help you wash your back, arms and legs and let you wash the other little bits."

  "Have you been peeking at my little bits when I've been asleep?"

  "No. Now lean forward."

  I obeyed as she stripped off my pyjama tops and pants, covered my private parts with seasoned practice with a large towel, and expertly washed my back, arms, armpits, body and legs, without getting any part of the bed damp.

  "Lift your buttocks," she insisted. I obeyed and she slipped a towel covered rubber mat underneath.

  "I'll be back in about five minutes. You should be finished by then."

  Immediately she left I began cleaning the other bits and my painful buttocks. After drying it all off, I reached into my drawer for the baby powder which I liberally sprinkled around.

  As I waited for her return I remembered my hazy first couple of days in the hospital when it was 'bed-bath' time. With prudish self-consciousness I would not allow the nurse anywhere near any part of my body to wash it; even though I was too weak and dazed to manage it myself. The nurse relented on the first day and allowed me to be unwashed. The same procedure happened the second day. But when she returned and saw I was still unwashed, a steely resolve entered her voice.

  She simply said, "Alright, if you don't want me to wash you, go ahead and try to stop me." She raised one of my arms into the air and I did not have sufficient strength to hold it up. It slowly fell to the bed.

  She proceeded to 'bed-bath' me from head to toe. After that I never objected, and in fact looked forward to the whole procedure.

  I had barely finished that reminiscence when today's nurse returned.

  "Time for the rub to prevent the bed sores."

  I willingly rolled onto my stomach, a little pained by the sore ribs. I lay in ecstasy while she gently massaged my hips, buttocks and lower back. I wanted to marry this nurse too and imagined a life of her giving me regular massages and 'bed-baths'.

  "Enough for today," she said. "I could hear you starting to snore."

  I rolled onto my back. "I was just imagining being cuddled up next to you on a cold winter's night."

  "I'd rather have a good book,” she replied.

  That should have deflated my ego. I was sorry to see her leave. But she had other patients to see who I am sure were as equally in love with her as I was.

  9:45 a.m. two male physiotherapists arrived. Partly welcome, partly not, depending on who was going to 'beat the daylights' out of me today. The enjoyable part was the massage of my severely wasted leg muscles, now thinner than my forearm.

  The younger was obviously in training. The senior instructed him in the leg massage technique by starting the procedure then allowing the apprentice to take over.

  Both were fine, no drama there.

  Then came the part I dreaded more than the 4-hourly needle.

  Asked to lift my right arm and roll onto my left side, which was painful to my ribs anyway, the tutor began a stead
y drum beat on my ribcage below my breast using slightly cupped hands. Done correctly it was not unbearably painful, but still not something that would be requested to be done for pleasure.

  The tutor muttered something to the student about loosening sputum within the lung to avoid long term retention and possible infection and also break off small blood clots reducing the formation of larger ones.

  The tutor had handed over to the pupil. The latter had no sense of timing or regular force on his down-beats. Also, the hands were not cupped but open causing a hurtful painful slap adding to the deep seated thump within my body. Within seconds I was lowering my arm to protect my side.

  "Enough!" I growled, with considerable anger in my voice.

  The physiotherapist looked at me startled, not expecting a practice dummy to reply. The student went red-faced and stepped away from the bed sensing the immediate threatened danger of physical retaliation.

  "Just take my notes down to the nurses’ room and wait there for me," the teacher said to the student.

  The student turned and left.

  "Bloody prick," I uttered.

  "He's trying his best."

  "No, you're the bloody prick."

  The teacher gave me a black look and walked out.

  About 20 minutes later Matron entered, took my hand to read my pulse, and instead of looking at my chest to read my respiration, she looked me directly in the eye. I knew something was wrong. Then her teeth flashed in a smile.

  "So," she said, "you insulted our physiotherapist. Bloody prick is he Mr. Plover?"

  "Yes Matron."

  "Let's see your ribs." She undid my pyjama front and slipped the sides of my pyjamas under my back.

  "Jesus," she said. "It looks like you've been in a fight. Both sides are covered in bruises."

  "You should check my bum."

  "I will, but that's a different problem which generally can't be avoided."

  She moved to the foot of my bed and checked my chart. Nodding her head side to side she said. "It's all here, the naughty man."

  "Why didn't you say something before?" she asked.

  "I just thought it was part of the treatment."

  "Not with that chart."

  "What? My bum is on that chart."

  She laughed. I had forgotten the sound her laugh. It was natural and beautiful.

  "You haven't changed thank goodness," she said. "No your bum isn't on the chart but I'll see if I can get those shots changed to 6 or 8 hourly."

  Another trolley wheeled in the door with its two accompanists. I knew what these people were here for. Pathology Department. They were here and I was not even dead yet.

  Matron stood, and as she left said in her best Dracula imitation, "They are here to take your blood."

  "Thanks Matron, I know."

  "You're welcome Mr. Plover."

  "Good morning," one of the new arrivals said with a smile. The other nodded.

  "Which arm do you want today?" I asked offering both.

  "You've got good veins generally. Let's see which will be easiest today."

  He took my elbows gently in his palms. "Which one did we do last-time, they're both still bruised."

  "I don't remember."

  "O.K. The right one today then." He wrapped the rubber tourniquet around the arm above the elbow and flicked on where he could see a prominent vein.

  "This vein looks good."

  He wiped some disinfectant over the spot, turned quickly to the trolley, and produced the usual giant needle with an accepting glass tube at its end.

  Gently he slipped the large needle just below the skin surface, directly into a vein. When he saw the blood begin its free flow into the tube he nodded in satisfaction. As soon as the first thumb-sized tube was filled he magically withdrew that and exchanged it for another. After repeating this action a few times he had five glass vials of blood.

  With cotton wool he pressed gently down on the entry point of the needle, withdrew it and put it on the tray while still holding his finger over the cotton wool at the entry point. Grabbing the forefinger of my unused arm he pushed it onto the cotton wool.

  "You know the story; keep a slight pressure on for a few minutes." With that he bent my arm at the elbow and tucked my fist under my chin. He went back to the trolley where his assistant had sealed the tubes and then used a marker pen to write something on the bottles.

  Returning to my bedside, he opened my arm and checked the entry point.

  "Looks good." He took a small Elastoplast and stuck it on.

  "Just keep the elbow bent for a while. G'bye."

  They departed.

  Even though their department used the largest needles they had certainly caused me the least amount of pain in my daily routine. I was genuinely grateful.

  11:15 a.m. 'no Inglish' arrived. She nodded in my direction and smiled, then began part two of her tasks. Using an expensive looking but very noisy vacuum cleaner she moved just as quickly and efficiently through the room as she had done with her dusting and wiping. In less than five minutes she had finished her task, gave me another nod and was gone.

  Again, not expecting interruption for a while, I lowered my legs out of the bed and relieved myself into the urine bottle, then quickly climbed back into bed.

  It was still grey outside with low clouds swirling in random patterns. The wind was strong enough to blow plastic bags and leaf litter high up between the buildings. I got a sense of coldness that would be felt much worse by people walking outdoors. And the distant hills had still not returned to view. Perhaps they had decided to take the rest of the day off and stay indoors or wherever hills go at night to shelter and sleep.

  I had been watching this cloud movement for quite a while when I sensed I was being watched. I looked toward the door and saw a shortish and slim grey-haired man wearing a long multi-blue check dressing and light green slippers.

  "Hi," he said when he saw that I had seen him.

  "G'day," I replied.

  "Wanna visitor?

  "Why not?"

  He walked slowly, but steadily, into the room pulling a long upright steel pole at the base of which was four wheels. At the top of the pole was a bag from which a long tube hung down and went into the sleeve of his dressing gown. Another bag sat much lower on the pole, another plastic tube running up to just below and inside the waist level of his gown. I guessed he was in his late sixties.

  As he approached he gave me a wide and confident smile. "I saw you yesterday from my room when you were wheeled in, and again both times this morning when you commoded to and from the toilet for the 'number twos'."

  I guess it is a natural thing among patients, but there is a lack of hand-shaking in case something unknown is transmitted on contact.

  "Hell," I said, "I haven't seen that much plastic tubing since I was breeding tropical fish. Are you allowed to do that in this ward?"

  He smiled. "Nah, Bloody water works problems, so at the moment I've got all this temporary plumbing hanging around."

  "That bottom one, does it go into where I think it goes?"

  "Yeah. Drains the bladder because of the prostate problems."

  I screwed up my nose. "Gawd, I can imagine how much that hurt when they, you know, I hate to think of it."

  "Yeah. It does make the eyes water for a bit."

  "I'm Bill Plover."

  "Jake Fantham," he replied.

  "Been in long?"

  "Nearly a month, all in this ward."

  "I had three weeks in another ward before I came here. You know we sound like a couple of criminals?"

  "Discussing our sentences?"

  "That's right."

  "Isn't that what we've got? We're serving time until they fix us up and shunt us out."

  "How much longer for you then, before the plumbing’s fixed?"

  "Maybe two to three weeks, then I've got plenty of time to get myself fit for bowls opening day."

  "Lawn bowls?"

  "Yeah. It's only a country club
I belong to, but it's been my life since the kids went. They have board and president elections the night before and I've got a good chance of being president this year. I've had eight years on the committee. It's coming up to the 50th anniversary of the opening of the club in 1925. My Dad was the first president. I'd like to be president at the 50 year celebration, you know, for Dad's sake and all that family tradition."

  "What? Is your Dad still alive then?"

  "No. He said he was eight years younger than he really was on his enlistment papers and went away to W.W.2. Got killed in the Western Desert."

  "That really was for King and country."

  "Yeah.”

  “Your Mum still alive?”

  “No. Mum was a talker. Drove Dad mad with her non-stop chatter. Dad, my brother and I would all go out to the back of the farm to get away. Always doing fencing or gate repairs. Anything, sometimes just sittin’, doin’ nothin’. We had the best fences in the district."

  "Where's your brother?"

  "Went to Korea in '53. Got killed near Pusan."

  "My Dad played lawn bowls too. He was like an addict. Even played the club tournament a few days before he died,” I replied.

  "What happened to him?" Jake asked.

  "Road accident."

  "Bowls gets into you blood."

  "Mum hated it. Tried to play, tried the social side but just never fitted in."

  "My wife loves it, talks the opposition to death, but I doubt she'll make the opener,” said Jake.

  "Why not?"

  "Cancer. She's just a couple of wards away."

  "Oh shit Jake, I'm sorry."

  "I'm not. We haven't exactly been close the last hundred years or so. I don't even bother to visit her. Told her not to bother me either."

  "That's a double pity. I always thought it would be nice to grow old together with someone. You know, nursing the grand-kids, telling the fairy stories and stuff."

  "Yeah. I guess that's the way I pictured it too but life plays its games."

  Three white-jackets came into the room. One I immediately recognised as my physician. Of the other two, one looked familiar, the other I had not seen.

  "Looks like official business," said Jake.

  "Pop back later if you feel like it," I said as he turned to go.

  Jake slowly but steadily eased out of the room, pulling his wheeled pole with him.

  "Good morning Mr. Plover."

  "Good morning Mr. Bourke." He was a physician and apparently the Mister in the medical profession ranked higher than a doctor. I could not figure it.

  "This is Doctor Kirk who you've met before. He did the procedure on you last time."

  "Yes I remember; you're a friend of my G.P."

  "That's right. Played 18 holes with him last Saturday. How've you been?"

  "Good," I replied. "Or I guess that's what we're all here to find out."

  "Yes," went on my physician. "This other gentleman is Doctor Knight. He's an anaesthetist."

  "A good name for putting people asleep," I said.

  "That's been pointed out before," he replied.

  "I'm pleased your name isn't D'Ath then."

  "As a matter of fact that's my mother's maiden name." He must have seen the change of expression on my face. "Only kidding."

  "We're here to try and work out why it's taking so long to get you out of here," said Mister Bourke.

  He examined my sputum dish and showed it to the other two.

  "Things should have well and truly cleared up by now, but there's something happening that we can't figure out."

  I just nodded, a little apprehensive at what they might be going to suggest.

  "As well as some more x-rays which I'll schedule for later this afternoon, I want Doctor Kirk to go in as before and have a good look for anything we might have missed."

  My memory of the last intrusion was not good. Sore body, sore throat and a massive hangover from the anaesthetic. A bronchoscopy then used a rigid metal tube stuck down your throat and into your lungs. That was about as intrusive as it could get. At least it meant it would be knife free which should mean a quicker recovery time.

  "Whatever you think," I tried to answer bravely although my mouth and throat had already gone dry.

  "You know, now that we're in the 1970's we do a lot more without having to cut into the body to explore," said Dr. Kirk. "The bronchoscope is a marvellous thing. I reckon by 1980 they will have learned to bend the light rays so we can have a flexible tube rather than the rigid pipe, even a camera maybe."

  His description did not make me feel a hell of a lot better.

  "You're quite a solidly built man, and we have to have staff to lift and shift your anaesthetised body so I can see into all the nooks and crannies I need to. You possibly had a bit of muscular soreness after the last procedure."

  A squeaky "Yes," popped out of my dried mouth, and now dry lips.

  "Dr. Knight is the one who has to keep you asleep the whole time, so your body doesn't twitch at the wrong time."

  "If it's alright by you," said Mr Bourke, "and if we can arrange theatre time at this late stage, we thought we'd do it tomorrow morning."

  "Yes," came the squeaky voice again. I cleared my throat. Trying to talk as if in control I went on, "yeah find out what's wrong." My voice came out quite strong even if a little louder than I meant.

  "Well let's get it organised then. A few things to change," said Mr Bourke.

  With that, the three wise men left.

  I sat contemplating the after-effects of the previous 'procedure', even the pre-effects. I was not looking forward to it.

  I do not know how long I had transported my mind away, but I did not hear the food trolley arrive.

  "A change for you sir." It was the toothpaste smile nurse who had made the promise of a better meal than the morning breakfast she had provided.

  I sparked up at the thought of a nice meal. Dinner for the condemned man and all that stuff.

  She presented me with a large bowl of clear soup sitting on an even larger saucer.

  "What happened to my promised fillet steak, chips and vegies?"

  "Last minute change apparently. No solids for the next 36 hours."

  "Shite, oh, sorry nurse, not your fault. Preparation for surgery is the reason. I just didn't expect the change to be so quick."

  "I see. I hope it all goes well then."

  "So do I."

  "See you tomorrow morning, I won't be delivering tonight."

  "All right. Bye."

  She left me looking into the clear soup trying to spot some prawns or pieces of meat accidentally overlooked by the fastidious dieticians.

  Soon after that, another ward nurse popped in and gave me a pill. "Soon be visiting time sir, about 30 minutes, this'll help."

  "I looked at the damn pain killer pill and thought twice about swallowing it, then did so. It was better that way if my expected visitors could not see the effects of the continual ache or occasional jabs of extreme pain. Also if my children were there they would want to climb up and be cuddled and the affects of the innocent accidental banging would be eased. My wife would not be as worried.

  The two hour 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. visiting period arrived with me as usual being on a high. It only ever took about 20 minutes for the pill to work. But the beneficial effects on me only lasted about 90 minutes.

  During this time the mailman arrived dishing out anything he had for the patients, like get well cards. Mine were in the bottom drawer of the bedside table.

  My wife and infant children were the first to arrive. They had been stripped of food, chocolate and fruit goodies by the Matron who told my wife about the next day. The in-laws arrived soon after, and after a short stay departed with the children who were already becoming fidgety despite the exciting, but grey view from the window.

  It was good to cuddle them all. Then, just as much fun to have multi-way and multi-level conversations as the children and my wife all spoke of different things at the sa
me time. Seemingly in different languages including child-speak.

  Other friends popped in at different times for different intervals, all stripped of goodies and advised there would be no visiting tomorrow, all given the promise that I would be given all the goodies in two days.

  As the visiting time entered the last 20 minutes, I was very conscious that the drugs effects were wearing off. Trivial bumps to the frame of the bed sent pains up my side. It is natural for visitors without chairs to lean against the frame for support. I had never advised them of my problem. Just tried to grin and bear it.

  Thankfully people were thoughtful enough to leave my wife and me alone for the last 15 minutes. There had been a lot of work absences and home doctor visits leading up to my hospitalisation. Therefore all sick-leave had expired and my wife had tired of my illness and now was feeling the financial strain as well. Neither of those factors disturbed her social life however, and she had begun to treat me as a reliable baby-sitter before I was hospitalised.

  In fact it was only after her return home in the early hours of one morning and seeing my condition that she phoned the physician, who visited despite the hour, and he suggested taking me straight to hospital without waiting for the ambulance. The physician was a golfing friend of my G.P.

  The in-laws arrived within minutes to baby-sit, the physician wrote a letter for the admittance desk, and I was bundled into the car.

  I have no recollection of what happened then, and apart from small windows of recollections, nothing much at all about what happened over the next two maybe three weeks.

  The last few minutes of the visiting time were always uncomfortable. Her wanting to go, but feeling obligated to stay. Me feeling in pain and wanting to be left alone, but wanting her to stay, preferably as silent company, as if her presence protected me from the next needle.

  When the bell sounded for end of visiting, she would wait a polite time after the bell, give me a quick kiss on the cheek, and be gone to the relief of us both.

  I settled back and began to concentrate my brain on pushing the steady pain back again to the recesses where it could be easily tolerated.

  After about ten minutes I felt comfortable enough to pick up one of the daily newspapers. I soon put it down, disinterested in the type of articles they described as news. Then I looked up at the door as I became conscious of being watched again.

  "Jake, come in.”

  "You sure you don't want to rest after your visitors?"

  "I have, but its good you're back."

  "Do you enjoy visitors?"

  "Yes, but in a strangely different way to what I expected."

  "How do you mean?"

  "I guess there've been a lot of surprises. Some people I thought were friends have never visited. While others perhaps on the outer circle, or some who would have to make a helluva big effort to get here, have turned up."

  "Yeah, I know what you mean,” he replied.

  "Some during the week visitors from work have turned up in office time because they've been given paid time-off to visit. So the true friends from work have been the ones who have visited in the weekend using up their own time."

  "Makes you reassess some workmates huh?"

  "Yeah, sure does. Still it's good to see the kids."

  "What do you got?"

  "Two daughters. So far. Maybe we'll try for a son. You got any grand-kids yet?"

  "Naah. Your kids look great. Enjoy them while you can. They leave too soon. Give them lotsa love while you can."

  "You said you had some kids."

  "Son and daughter. They really only got to know me in their late teens. Realised their Mum was full of bull-shit as well as a nag. We then got on well. Sounds sloppy, but you know there was heaps of love between us."

  "So they've left home. What are they doing?"

  There was a long pause as if he was trying to remember; but it seemed to be just a little beyond recall.

  "Both dead."

  "Oh hell, Jake. What happened?”

  Jake looked away toward the window and said nothing. I watched his small chest rise and fall rapidly under the dressing-gown as he fought the demon of tears released in front of a stranger.

  "Long story really Bill,” he said with a broken voice.

  "None of my business. But if it’s not too painful. Otherwise don't worry about it."

  "My wife's one of those people that talk. And talk and talk. Hardly draws breath. Hates being by herself, because she doesn't have anyone to talk to. When we built our home on the farm she had to have it designed open plan. No walls between the kitchen and lounge or dining room. Just so as she could talk. She'd even try to talk to me through the toilet door when I was inside. Used to drive me mad. The only way to get away from it was to leave the house. Nobody could get a word in. Funny thing was that before we got married she would hardly talk at all. Then she turned into a monster worse than my Mother. Talk about marrying someone like your Mum. I did."

  "When the kids' were young they used to think I was terrible. Just to avoid coming home to that nagging voice going on and on, I'd stay out as late as possible. In the early years my kids' hated me for that. My wife obviously used to bad mouth me to them as often as she could to poison their minds against me."

  "I just thought I'd wait until both the kids' had turned 21 and then leave. The kids' would do what they wanted."

  "My boy was 18 months younger than my girl. In his early-teens he started to tinker with engines. Became an absolute bloody wonder. Could fix anything. On our farm he fixed the tractor, the car, farm bike, water-pump; then the neighbours’ vehicles from combine harvesters to tropical fish-tank motors. Everybody brought their broken down vehicles to the farm."

  "A few weeks before my girl's 21st we thought we'd better start organising a bit of a gig for her. Well, my daughter wanted a smallish party, maybe 30 people, my son wanted about 8-10 friends to come, I thought we'd invite a couple of neighbours as well. Maximum 50 to 60. But my wife produced a list of over 200 people for the 'coming out' 21st."

  "Everybody argued. As usual my wife talked and never listened. She'd booked a hall and got 250 invitations printed without asking my daughters opinion of the cards. The first sight my daughter had of them was when my wife gave her 25 cards to invite her friends. My wife had already posted out the rest of the cards."

  "I'd had enough of her voice that day. I got into the car and drove into town for a few beers. What I didn't know was that the kids wanted to get out as well. My boy could ride a motor bike, you know the small putt-putt farm bikes for rounding up sheep. But at that time we didn't have a farm bike. So he grabbed this 850cc bike he had just finished repairing. His sister came running out when he started up the bike. She jumped on as a pillion passenger."

  Jake looked away toward the window again. His chest pumping up and down.

  "It was just too big for them, too powerful."

  He slowly turned and left the room.

  I slid down into my bed and closed my eyes. I knew what the weather was like outside, grey and raining. And I knew how Jake felt inside.

  ----------

  The food trolley came, though its delivery for me was hardly worth the extra metres the nurse had to walk. The nurse was cheery, apologising for the meagre ration she was allowed to give me; though she topped up my drinking water. I thanked her anyway. My thoughts were not really with the meal.

  When she returned to collect the plates, I feigned sleep. She removed everything quietly, closed the curtains, and left.

  It had been dark outside for a while. The distant hills had failed to make an appearance all day. That had been wise. There had been absolutely no reason for them to come out at any time this day in such lousy weather. They would only have got wet and cold without a sunbeam to show for it. I just wished I knew where their secret hiding place was so I could hide too when I needed.

  I started to think about Jake and his bowls. Wondered if he was any good or simply a drinker who bowled.

&nb
sp; There was a light tap on the door. I looked up and suddenly a hand appeared low around the door. Newspaper, screwed up into a large tight ball skidded across the floor.

  Jake's head appeared. "He's taken the jack and with it the club championship in this 50th anniversary year."

  He moved inside and flashed the biggest smile he had given me since I had met him. He suddenly looked 10 years younger.

  "Hey give me some of what you’re on," I asked.

  "Release young man. I'm outa here in three or four days."

  "Bloody marvellous," I responded. "When did you hear about this?"

  "Just before dinner. Matron said the tests are all fine. I'll have the plumbing just one more night. They want me to stay just a couple more days after that to ensure that I'm peeing alright by myself, then its freedom."

  "You'll miss all these gorgeous young nurses."

  "The hell I will. At my age I'd rather have a cold beer."

  "That's great news."

  "I've been trying to practice bending my knees to deliver the ball, but with all these attachments it's not easy. Even without that though, the knees need a bloody lot of exercise. They've stiffened up. Never mind. Bowls opening day, here I come."

  "What about the wife?" I suddenly thought it was a stupid subject to raise after his earlier revelations.

  "No. Her cancer is terminal, and very advanced. She'll never get out of here alive. Probably dead before opening day."

  "Oh." I didn't know what else to say.

  "You know what? It just struck me. The bitch might hang on as long as she can and die on opening day just in an attempt to piss me off one more time. You know, expecting me to mourn over her body on opening day."

  "Jake. C'mon. Don't be that hard on her."

  "I suppose I'll have to get a message to her and tell her that I'm out of here."

  "We've got a few days then to swap addresses. I'm gonna be a bit busy tomorrow though," I added.

  "Why. Are you going to the Monday horse races?"

  "I wish. No they want to just have a quick peek inside in theatre. Just to see if there's any reason for the slow recovery. No big deal. I'll just be a bit groggy and hung-over afterwards."

  A nurse entered.

  "Ah, there you are, Mr. Fantham. Time to change your bags, possibly for the last time I hear."

  His smile lit up again.

  "Yes nurse. I'll miss your tender caring touch."

  "Perhaps we can return you to your room," she said.

  "Sure." he looked at me. His expression changed to one of seriousness. "I'll watch out for you tomorrow."

  "Thanks."

  Escorted by the nurse, he left the room.

  I was pleased there was no visiting that evening. The fear of the unknown in tomorrow made me a little edgy; even though I was quite sure the doctors had been honest about the simplicity of the routine.

  The evening drifted by, only interrupted by the usual routines before final pill popping and lights out. I was pleased to take the sleeping pill tonight. I did not want to have a long period of sleeplessness worrying. That would be easy as I could feel the stomach protest the hunger pangs.

  ----------

  5:30 a.m. the first of the witches coven arrived with a cheery "good morning, Mr. Plover," as she drew open the curtains. She warmed up her hands on the heater.

  "Still cold outside," she said, "though it looks like we're gonna be in for a fine day."

  I looked at her through my sleepy eyes then looked at the windows. It was still night black outside.

  I sat up knowing that I would not get any further chance to sleep.

  One of the night-duty nurses came in. This was not routine. She poured less than a quarter-glass of water into my glass, put a coaster on top, and removed the water jug.

  "What's that for?"

  "You're having theatre this morning. Can't have you drowning in water or peeing on the table can we?" She left.

  I just nodded. No fun on theatre day.

  Other nurses, many whose faces were now familiar, trickled into the room. Some nodded to me while others proffered a "good morning," or other greeting; friendlier than yesterday.

  Again at 5:50 a.m. they exited en-masse and I had the room to myself again.

  As I had little recollection of the routine the previous time I went to theatre, I was curious as to what would happen. I had already seen the starvation diet and water deprivation torture applied. I sub-consciously looked at my finger nails and wondered if they would pull those out next to prevent me scratching myself when I was asleep.

  Just before 7:00 a.m. I heard the food trolley arrive. The nurse had the kindness to put her head in and apologise for not having anything for me this morning. I thanked her, listened to the trolley's stop-start progress down the ward. I pictured all the carnivores tearing the tossed meat carcasses to shreds, while I was near death from starvation.

  The day soon became bright and sunny. The hills had returned to their sentinel position. I was pleased about that. The skyline would not have looked as nice if they had failed to turn up for the day.

  7:15 a.m. Matron entered.

  "Good morning, Mr. Plover."

  "Good morning, Matron."

  "Sleep well?"

  "Yes thanks. It was the early waking that was the problem."

  Matron undid a tissue containing a pill.

  "Take this please."

  I popped the pill and tried to swallow. My mouth was dry. I reached around for my quarter glass of water.

  "No water," she said. "That water should not have been left there."

  "I've got a dry mouth, can't swallow it."

  Matron stood up, taking the glass with her she poured all but about a teaspoon-full into the sink "This'll have to do."

  As soon as the scant moisture reached my tongue I was able to swallow the pill.

  She then proceeded to take my pulse, blood pressure, checked my eyes and mouth. Then with a stethoscope she thoroughly warmed the end in her hand then checked out various areas front and back, including the usual breathe in, breathe out. I guessed somewhere in there she had estimated my respiration. She made various notes on my chart and then pulled up a chair and sat beside me.

  "You'll be heading off to pre-op in a couple of minutes. We had you scheduled for first thing this morning. However an emergency op on a baby is now scheduled before you. So you're number two cab off the rank. But you have to be in there and ready."

  "I just hope the driver knows where he's going."

  "You haven't changed, which is good. Dr. Kirk is tops, one of the best in the country."

  "Is he much good in the city?"

  "Shut up. I'm trying to do all my Psych 2 build-up to reduce tension in a pre-op situation."

  "Me too. I don't want you to worry while I'm gone."

  I felt the effect of the drug she gave me start very suddenly to take effect.

  "Hey Margaret, that shit you gave me's real good."

  "Matron, Mr. Plover."

  "You say potato I say potarto." I knew I had slurred my words but I did not care.

  With that, I slipped into a state where I must have closed my eyes because I had become oblivious to my surroundings.

  I was not aware of being transported to the pre-op room. I woke when they inserted the needle into the back of my hand for use by the anaesthetist. I recall asking about how the baby was, but I did not remember the replies.

  "Tell Dr. Kirk to look out for the dog-leg on the left when he goes in." Then it was only a faint female voice saying "not long to wait now." There were no faces. Total unconsciousness followed.

  ----------

  A jack-hammer headache, dry throat, muscle sore body and a hacking painful cough made me aware that the procedure was complete and that I had been through the recovery ward and was back in my own ward.

  My headache was too painful to open my eyes. I was aware of a slightly damp and very cool flannel being regularly wiped over my head and face. It eased the head pains.<
br />
  After what for me was an indeterminate time, I opened one eye-lid, then the other very slowly. I saw the curtains closed around the bed. I closed my eyes again and became aware of all the hospital noises. When I tried to adjust my body position, my muscles ached as though I had done gymnastic exercises way beyond my body's capabilities.

  About two minutes after that, I heard the curtain rings slide on the tubing.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Plover. Welcome back."

  I turned my head slowly, my neck muscles protesting painfully. "Hello, Matron."

  She took my pulse, blood pressure, and checked me with her stethoscope with the usual breathing exercises.

  "That all seems good."

  "Thanks."

  "Dinner will be here soon, but you'll still be limited to soup for tonight. I'll see you get a couple of pieces of fresh but unbuttered bread to go with your soup."

  "O.K., why?"

  "Nothing bad. Merely to reduce the chance of you throwing up after such a long time under anaesthetic."

  "How's the baby?"

  "I was told you'd probably ask. As well as can be expected."

  "C'mon Matron."

  "Alright. The baby’s a bit sick but with a good chance of full recovery. The op was a bit more complex than they anticipated. That was why you were out in pre-op for more time than expected."

  "What was wrong with the baby?"

  "I don't know. I was only given some 'info' because I was told you kept nagging them about the baby being alright. They suspected you might ask. Aren't you interested in what happened to you."

  "Of course."

  "Dr. Kirk thanks you for the warning about the dog-leg to the left, whatever that was about. They trimmed the area around the infection they already knew about. And the search revealed nothing new."

  "So. what happens now?"

  "Mr. Bourke has the results of the tissue sample. He'll probably visit tomorrow. The recovery nurses say thanks for the songs especially 'Raindrops are falling on my head'. The swearing was hardly mentioned."

  "God. I didn't did I?"

  "Apparently. You brightened up their day. This is only between us. Recovery room happenings are confidential."

  "Thank the nurse with the cool damp cloth too will you."

  "You can thank him yourself later. He insisted on an eye-dropper too so he could put the occasional drops of water on your lips to reduce your sore throat. It was Mr Fantham."

  "Good God."

  "He had his plug removed early this morning. As soon as you got back he started to nag me about a nurse to watch you full-time. When I said I didn't have a spare one, he offered. Said he'd had more practical experience in nursing valuable stud stock, and was therefore more experienced in nursing than any of the quacks in the hospital. He's been sitting silently in that chair next to the bed for the three hours you've been back. Wiping your face, checking your breathing."

  "Where's he now?"

  "He came to fetch me as soon as you were out of the anaesthetic. Probably in his room. He said he'll pop over and see you after dinner."

  "Thanks."

  "You want the curtain open yet or closed for a while longer?"

  "Closed. I might doze off for a while more."

  "If you're asleep when the trolley comes I'll get them to put the soup aside. I'll see you tomorrow then."

  "Thanks Matron."

  She gave me a wink and left.

  Over the next hour or so, I dozed.

  Thankfully my eyes were open when the dinner nurse put her head between the curtains.

  "You're awake then?"

  "And hungry."

  Two beautifully fresh bread rolls were delivered with the soup. I ate one just to get the after effects of the anaesthetic out of my mouth. The other I dunked into my soup and soaked up as much juice as possible. When the second roll was finished, I ignored any pretence of manners and put the soup bowl to my mouth and drained the contents.

  Within minutes I felt my stomach churning. It was protesting painfully. I lay down again, pleased at the wisdom of Matron as to how much extra I could have without vomiting.

  The nurse collected the bowl in silence when she saw my eyes were closed.

  I was aware of other voices in the room on an irregular basis and other longer subdued conversations.

  About 9:00 p.m. a nurse came in, gave me a half-dose sleeping pill and watched me swallow it.

  "Do you want me to leave the curtains closed overnight?"

  "Yes please."

  As soon as she left, I eased my legs off the bed. My back muscles screamed in protest. The feeling of relief after urinating almost made up for the aching muscles.

  Soon after resettling into bed a nurse from the door called out. "Goodnight everyone."

  I heard three other voices reply. "Goodnight nurse."

  I began to wonder where the hell I was. The sleeping pill and the effects of the rest of the day’s drugs put me to sleep before I could even think of a first possibility for my changed surroundings.

  ----------

  The sound of brass rings sliding on tubing woke me up.

  "Good morning," said the bright chirpy voice. "We don't want to be anti-social do we?" I opened my eyes as the nurse pulled back the curtains surrounding my bed.

  "Hi," I replied as I looked around at the surroundings of my new room. There were three other occupied beds. The faces of the patients all looking at me as one by one they greeted me with a "good morning," or "hello and welcome." I returned each greeting with a polite one of my own, despite the fact that I really felt like saying, "what the hell are you guys doing in my room?"

  It was a different room. Slightly smaller than my previous room, it had one bed in each corner. I noticed the other three patients were all 'wired for sound' with various monitors delivering varying sounds or wave patterns on their screens. Probably all heart patients.

  I would have liked to have tried to tune one or two monitors into a T.V. station to give us all a more exciting day. The wall clock showed 6:20 a.m. I had been given an extra 50 minutes sleep by evading the morning meeting of the 'witches coven'. I would leave it until the end of the day to judge whether there was benefit in losing the 'penthouse' or not.

  Breakfast was wheeled in and I saw the other three get their 'special diet meals'. Mine was a bit sparse for the way I was feeling. Two little-finger sized sausages, two very well poached eggs and two pieces of toast that looked like they might have almost touched a butter knife, together with a tumbler of orange juice. I would not have swapped with the other patients even if they promised me eternal life.

  After breakfast was over, the other patients introduced themselves. Various medical technicians entered removing the wiring to other patients. Obviously the link-ups were only a means to make night time monitoring easier.

  All now wire free, the other patients, dressing gowned and slippered, made their way to the toilets and bathrooms. I wondered how I was going to do my urine relief act unseen. Two patients were out of the room, the third had his face hidden behind the day’s newspaper which he was reading. The smile I had after performing my secret act would have made some people suspicious as to what heinous crime I had committed and got away with.

  I sat forward in my bed to check the view out the wide single window to my right. The day was clear, and yes the distant hills had come back to sun themselves once again. Though I had lost one window, at least I could still keep an eye on the comings and goings of my hills.

  The double entry doors to my far left were open. Across the main corridor of the ward I could see part of the room beyond.

  Its occupant was receiving some form of physiotherapy. Because much of the view was obscured by the angle I could not see what treatment it was. I guessed it was a single room.

  My thoughts of the pain freak, the ‘Dr. Mengele’ type physiotherapist, pounding out my ribs with a crow bar, crossed my mind. I watched the goings on through the door. The physio' stepped back. My God, there he was. S
till at liberty. I wondered how he had not been arrested and tried by the war crimes tribunal.

  I thought about my reaction if he was to come for a session today. Then I wondered about his reaction if he saw me.

  Sitting back, I watched the small scattered clouds through the window. They were changing shape with a slow gentleness.

  "How are the ribs?" came the voice at the foot of the bed.

  My God, it was Dr. Mengele himself.

  "Oh, O.K. I think," I lied.

  "Sorry about the other day, I wasn't aware of the pneumonia/pleurisy thing. I can well imagine the pain I caused."

  "That's O.K.," I still lied.

  "I'm surprised that you tolerated it for so long over these last couple of weeks."

  "I thought it was all supposed to help me get better quicker, you know, getting rid of the fluids."

  "The good news is that I'll be leaving your lungs alone until the pain subsides. However I've still got to work on your legs to reduce the chances of clotting. O.K.?"

  "Yes please."

  "He went to work on the ankles, calves and thighs, and I felt the tension ease from the weird contortions they must have gone through during yesterday's bronchoscopy. When he finished, I felt like asking him if he also did backs, but decided after calling him a 'bloody prick' two days before I would be pushing my luck.

  "How's that?" he said.

  "Not out," I replied. "In a cricket sense of course."

  He grinned at my response.

  "No, it feels great, thanks."

  He nodded and left. Even Dr. Mengele must have had a good side.

  Soon after that Jake came in, 'sans' tube, 'sans' wheels and fluid bags.

  "How are you?" he smiled.

  "Bloody good. What about you without the plumbing then? No more tropical fish, eh?"

  He stooped at the knees and made an imitation of delivering a lawn bowl.

  "Over six weeks to the tourney, but I'll need practice if I'm to sharpen up. Being club champ again would be nice."

  "Hey, I had some really bad dreams while I was under the drugs yesterday."

  Jake looked at me seriously. "What happened?"

  "I dreamed of an ugly old hag dressed in the Crimean War style nurses uniform, looking like a 150 year old Florence Nightingale. She was washing down my face with lovely cooling water. But the face was ugly beyond belief."

  "Bastard," he said.

  "Thanks, Florence,” I said, "It really was appreciated beyond belief.

  "That's all right son, you're welcome. It's just that your snoring and farting meant I had to take a whiff of oxygen occasionally."

  "So," I said. "When's release date?"

  "Two more nights. I don't know what the house is going to be like when I get home. Neither my wife, or me, have been home in over a month. The yards are probably a mess."

  "Are you a keen gardener?"

  "Hell no. I'll need the time for bowls practice."

  "Bed bath time," came the cheery voice from the nurse.

  "I'll leave you to it," said Jake. As he turned and left, he again made an exaggerated bend of the knees and pretence of bowling. He looked back at me and gave me the thumbs up.

  I relaxed, allowing the nurse to work. I still did the personal stuff.

  About ten minutes after she left, the same nurse, now as the 'bed sores' nurse, massaged my pained back and eased the buttocks soreness. I could not remember her face or body but I would still marry her hands if I was single.

  The rest of the day passed as per standard routine. Injections, toilet on commode, lunch, blood, mailman, visitors etc. interspersed by a couple of five to ten minute visits by Jake. It was good. He never stayed too long.

  That night, next day, and next night, followed much the same pattern but all passed very quickly.

  Jake's company was never dull, boring or unwelcome. The stories of his life were always delivered with fervour, sometimes comical, sometimes serious, but always interesting.

  Throughout, I could see his dedication to whatever he applied his mind to; and that, certainly at the moment, was his precious bowling club. Because his father had been the main catalyst for establishing the local club he seemed to feel slightly inferior and perhaps even a disappointment to his father's memory. To me he was always welcome company, with deep thought and consideration of the feelings and sensitivities of others.

  On the morning of his departure when Jake came into my room, I did not recognise him immediately. Initially I thought it was a smartly dressed Doctor doing the early rounds visiting one of his patients. He was wearing a navy blue blazer with a monogrammed pocket, light blue trousers with a prominent crease, white shirt with a red, white and blue angle striped tie, black chisel toed shoes. His grey hair was neatly parted on the left. He looked fit, rosy-cheeked and very happy.

  I'm already packed. Just finishing up with some important details."

  "Jesus Jake. What a change in you."

  "I feel bloody marvellous. I have a friend picking me up at 10:30 a.m. But before then I have to get all the post hospital info and lecture from Matron and my Doctor. Then get my pills and instructions for their use. So I thought I'd better see you now just in case I can't get back later."

  He had neatly cut a small envelope from corner to corner. It formed a slightly out of shape triangle. He gave me a pen and one half of the envelope.

  "If you want, I'd love to contact you later after your escape. Maybe have a chat on the phone occasionally to keep in touch. Or call me and I’ll help you build a tunnel for your escape."

  "I'd love to Jake."

  I wrote my name, address, telephone number and place of work and work number on the blank half that he had given me.

  When I gave it to him he examined it carefully, making sure that it provided all the details. Carefully he folded it from corner to corner, making a smaller triangle. He withdrew a fine dark leather wallet from inside his jacket, placed the triangle inside, and re-pocketed the wallet.

  He handed me the other triangle, already folded.

  "My address is written inside. Look at it later."

  He grabbed my right hand before I could open the triangle and shook it. He had a good strong grip.

  "I'll get going, Bill. I’ll drop in just before I go if everything else goes to time."

  "Thanks, Jake. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

  "No. Thank you. Now, shut up you're getting all sloppy." He turned and walked out the rom. I wondered sadly, when or if I would see him again.

  I gazed at the folded triangle he had given me. Then noted he had written his name, address and telephone number on the bottom segment of the triangle. On the top part of the triangle he had written the inscription, "Bill, I'm sure the spirit of my son lives on in you."

  I closed my eyes and tried to doze off.

  ----------

  I returned from my commode visit to the toilet, back into my room about 9:30 a.m. Matron and an aide wearing a radiation indicator badge, and holding a wheelchair, were waiting in my room.

  "X-rays for you Mr. Plover," said Matron.

  The aide assisted me from the commode to the wheelchair and started to wheel me out.

  "Matron," I called out. The aide paused the wheelchair. "If I miss Mr. Fantham please give him my best wishes and thanks."

  "I will be seeing him in a few minutes. I'll definitely pass on your best wishes."

  The aide wheeled me through about 150 kilometres of passageways, alleyways, up and down various levels in elevators and finally I was sure, into a basement prepared for a nuclear explosion.

  Then parked like a taxi rank with two other wheelchairs in front of me, there were only four windowless white painted walls in the wide passageway. No paintings, flowers, scratches on the walls, or wheel-marks on the floors. I wondered if this was like a smaller version of a Nazi gas chamber which was still in pre-production. Gassing only one each time.

  The two earlier arrivals went through the doors heavily marked "Radiology
Room-Do Not Enter". There was a ten minute gap between each. They never returned through the same door. Did this add credence to my theory? Presumably they were exiting elsewhere. But it added to my concerns about a gas chamber for defective people.

  Eventually my time came and was given x-rays in standing and laying down positions, then wheeled out through another door and told to wait until the x-rays were developed and checked.

  I tried to consider what other options I had. I could never have found my way back to my own ward. I imagined another generation of archaeologists, maybe one thousand years in the future, excavating the old hospital site and discovering my bones, lost in a never used passage, and still sitting in a rusted up wheelchair.

  "We'll need to take those x-rays again I'm afraid," came the female voice from over my shoulder.

  Hell, if she was afraid, how did she think I felt?

  "Through the same routine again, sorry. I messed up last time."

  Oh sure, sure, I thought. After this second lot of x-rays I'll be glowing blue in the dark. If all this x-ray stuff was so safe, why did the staff hide in little bomb proof shelters every time they took a shot.

  After being shunted out a second time, I seriously began to examine the floor assessing my chances of tunnelling out to freedom. Together Jake and I could rob banks and trains to support our bowling habit.

  In a very short time, a different aide seemed to appear from behind some secret wall panel and started walking me back to ward. We covered the 150 kilometre return journey in about ten minutes.

  It was after 11:15 a.m. when the aide returned me to the ward. As we approached the Matron's room she emerged.

  "Am I glowing bright blue?" I asked.

  "Very pretty blue it is, she replied.

  "Did you give my message to Mr. Fantham."

  She took the wheelchair from the aide, and with difficulty wheeled me on and into my room followed by the aide. I noticed the door to Jake's room was closed. The aide helped me onto my bed and left with the wheelchair.

  Matron sat in the chair next to the bed.

  "Well, has he gone?"

  I saw her take a deep breath, and then audibly exhale.

  "What's happened?" I asked.

  "It's not as bad as it sounds," she started. "Soon after you left, and after he returned from visiting his wife, we had begun talking about his self treatment after he left. He started to complain about feeling some chest pains and numbness in his right arm and leg. I guessed what was happening, and we got the right equipment and treatment to him in time before any damage was done."

  I simply lowered my head and nodded it side to side.

  "It was a mild stroke and he should be fully recovered in a couple of weeks,” she said.

  "It's not fair Matron. He's a nice guy."

  "I'll arrange for you to be wheeled in to see him later this afternoon."

  "But what about his bowls opening day? There's not much time left."

  "When's that?"

  "In about six weeks."

  "He'll be out well and truly before then."

  "I hope so."

  She took my hand to check my pulse, but made no attempt to touch my vein with her forefinger. "You're something else aren't you? Smiles on the outside, and who knows what inside."

  She patted my hand, stood up, pulled the curtains closed around my bed, and I presume left the room.

  A handsome lunch arrived, consumed with great appreciation and followed with a ‘feet on floor’ bladder relief into the urine bottle.

  After the pain killer pill of 1:30 p.m. the curtains were swept back. Thankfully few visitors arrived after 2:00 p.m. I feigned tiredness which was easy, because the disinterest was real. Nobody stayed long, not even my wife, though she suspected something was amiss. She asked what was wrong. I just nodded negatively and said I had a bad night.

  Unconvinced, and after her usual annoying habit of opening my mail for me, she left. She no doubt stopped in to have a chat with the Matron. They had both been in the same year at the same High School.

  About 4:30 p.m. a ward aide pushing a wheelchair came in followed by Matron.

  "You can see Mr. Fantham now, if you wish. Just five minutes," she said. "If you do, I'll wait outside the door."

  It was something I was not looking forward to. I nodded my agreement and quickly got into the wheelchair unaided to the frown of Matron.

  "Only five minutes remember," she said.

  The wheelchair fitted through one door.

  Jake's appearance shocked me. His eyes followed my entry. His right eye half closed and the right corner of his mouth dribbled spittle. Wires connected him to monitors and small twin oxygen tubes whisked purer air via his nostrils into his lungs. Other tubes from his arm and hand ran to who knows where.

  This did not look like the same well dressed man that I had swapped addresses with a few hours previous.

  He tried to speak but the words were garbled and indecipherable.

  Eventually I controlled my shock and sadness. Pulling myself together I said "Shut up you silly old fart. You're drunk. I can't understand a word you're saying."

  His struggling to talk stopped. A type of S-shaped smile formed on his face.

  "Jesus," I said. "If Matron finds your stash you'll be in deep shit. Look I'll do you a deal. Tell me the name of your supplier, split your existing stash 50/50, and I'll just tell Matron you’re not drunk, you've just had a mild stroke."

  The crooked smile continued while uncontrollable moisture rolled out of the corner of his eyes as well as the spittle out of his mouth.

  I pulled some tissues out of the box on the bedside table, wiping away his tears and spittle.

  He was trying to say something. He kept repeating the same word, and it took a several attempts before I thought I had it correct.

  "Bowling?" I asked.

  His head nodded slightly.

  "O.K." I said. "I did tell Matron about it and this is what she told me. Facts now, no bull-shit, this is serious. I know how important opening day is to you."

  Again, his head nodded slightly.

  "Your stroke was mild in nature and the present disabilities will be very short-lived. It was lucky you were with Matron at the time it happened because she was able to swing into action immediately and give you the right needles."

  "You'll be on intense physio for the next 10 to 12 days, then a few days after that your rent here is expired and out you go."

  Again the nod.

  "Matron also said there were a few conditions to your rapid recovery."

  The nod.

  "No sex with the nurses or secretly sneaking out for a few holes of golf during the period of recovery."

  The S-smile came again.

  "Jake, I'm serious again. Matron did say you will get to opening day. Perhaps with bugger all time for practice, therefore maybe without the singles championship under your belt, but certainly with the chance of accepting the presidency if you win. She can't guarantee that. She's gonna get your shirt washed. The jacket and pants dusted off O.K. Thankfully you didn't piss yourself or take a shit during your wobbly."

  His blue-grey eyes looked at me for a certainty of truth behind my words. I held his gaze strongly to confirm my words, then, I began to nod positively.

  Eventually I broke eye contact and said, "I'm only allowed to stay for five minutes, so where's the booze hidden."

  He mumbled out some more unintelligible words as I wiped his eyes and mouth again.

  "I'm gonna get lessons in that language. Mate, I'm serious again. Don't get frustrated. I'm just across the hall, remember. So if you can't control your arms and speech I suspect you can't control other parts as well. So because I'm so close, try to keep your farting and snoring as quiet as possible after lights out because I might think you're calling for help.

  Matron stepped into the room at the end of the conversation.

  "The end of that conversation sounded interesting," she said.

  She began to wheel
me out. "I might catch you later, Jake."

  "No, not tonight," picked up Matron. "We'll give him an overnight rest from you."

  "Goodnight mate."

  A gurgle came from Jake.

  Matron wheeled me back to my room and helped me into my bed.

  "You all right?" she asked.

  "No I'm bloody well not. It's just not fair on Jake." My Adam’s apple in my throat jumped as I swallowed.

  "Thank you for what you said in there," said Matron. "Except for your wild statements, most of what you said about his recovery was true."

  "You mean he can still have sex with the nurses?"

  She took a pretend slap at my face. "I will get his shirt fixed and washed though."

  "Perhaps you could hang the clothes up in his room where he can see them. You know, visual incentive."

  "Motivational eh? Good idea,” she said.

  Matron nodded thoughtfully, gave me a smile, and a look that was enigmatic. She took the wheel chair and walked out.

  I was now feeling genuinely tired, as well as feeling gutted from the day’s events. Attempts by my room-mates to start up a conversation I replied to with monosyllabic grunts. They soon gave up.

  The rest of the day, dinner, visitors, pills injections and so on all passed without my really noticing. Within seconds of the end of evening visiting, apart from remembering my wife was there I couldn't remember who had come in. I had just let the visitors talk among themselves.

  When I was given my sleeping pill and lights out came, I was pleased that this horrible day had ended.

  ----------

  The cheery morning nurse turned on the lights, walked across the room and slid the thick curtain back from the one large window.

  "Good morning everyone," she called out.

  The responses were my "Hi", a couple of "Hrrumphs" and a loud fart from the old Scot in the bed opposite mine.

  The old Scot sat up quickly. "Who said that? It looks a bonny fine day t'me."

  It was still dark outside.

  "Nurse," I called out as she was leaving, "have you seen Mr. Fantham this morning?"

  "Yes, he seems as well as can be expected."

  "Oh c'mon nurse, don't be a pain."

  "You'll have to ask Matron when she arrives, Mr. Plover."

  With that she left.

  The other three looked at me for an explanation. I told them that Jake was due to be discharged the previous day after getting over his prostate problems only to have a stroke minutes before departure. Then I explained about his bowls opening day.

  The others shook their heads in disbelief.

  "Och," said the Scot. I ne'er can understand the workings o' the Lord. I've given up trying."

  "I guess that is why we don't try to make too many close friendships in this ward," said the Englishman in the bed next to mine. "They're too likely to be short lived."

  The next lot of nurses, working quickly, unplugged the various cords from the others that they would not need during the day. Then I could hear the distant food trolley.

  The other three got theirs first. Then mine came. I ignored the obvious looks of envy as they saw my two small sausages, two eggs, a rasher of really hard bacon shrunken to the size of a cigarette lighter, two slices of toasted bread, two sachets of butter, one sachet each of Marmalade and Strawberry and a large glass of Orange juice. The others only had small glasses.

  "Well oyl be fooked," said the Irishman in the bed at the far corner. "Can you see that now? Who've I gotta fook to get a meal like that then?"

  We all burst out laughing, but I was wondering what Jake was having, if anything.

  After the nurses had cleaned up, we four room-mates chatted for the first time since I had arrived in the room. Although it was my third day there, on the first I had been sedated, the second I was at x-rays and been concerned with Jake. Even while we talked I kept looking across the corridor at the still closed door to Jake's room.

  Occasionally someone would go in; stay varying times; then leave. A couple of white-jackets stayed about twenty minutes. The chiropractor, hopefully with his human face, also spent about twenty minutes with Jake.

  So I had my mind going three ways; the normal hospital routines, our room conversation and the eye across the corridor.

  When Matron came through on her ward rounds she checked everyone's pulse, respiration, blood pressure, and briefly chatted. Then, checking their charts, she would make notes where she felt necessary.

  Doing the same tests with me she said, "x-rays were clear except for what we knew about. The reason for the second take was that we don't tell radiology where the problem is. So if they see a problem they'll take a second x-ray. Yours was just a repeat of the scar tissue tidied up by Dr. Kirk the other day. Nothing new. A good result."

  "Your mixture of pills will change. You'll only get three injections. We will be dropping the 2:00 a.m. shots. It'll help, get you some uninterrupted sleep."

  "Pathology will still of course need their daily blood, to keep an eye on the changes, especially with the different pills. Checking your gamma globulin, the thickness of your blood, and other stuff like that.”

  "Yeah," I said "but what about Mr. Fantham?"

  "Normally I'd be restricted in what I could say as you're not family. But he seems to be treating you as family. He’s surprisingly good actually. He's reacted swiftly to treatment, his speech is already improved, and he seems to be getting some controlled movement back in his right arm and leg."

  "When can I visit him?"

  "Later today if all goes well."

  "What caused it?"

  "That's what we're trying to figure out."

  "Did he see his wife yesterday?"

  "Why?"

  "I just wondered."

  "Yes, he visited her before he came to see me for his discharge talk. He went to tell her he was being discharged. According to the cancer ward matron there was an argument."

  "He hates her with a passion.”

  "Why?"

  "You're not family. I can't tell you," I said with a grin.

  Matron poked the tip of her tongue at me in a gesture of rudeness. “Out with it Mr. Plover.”

  "Apparently she just nags and nags him. He blames her for the death of their two children. Now she says if she can't make opening day she's praying he'll die before her."

  "Where'd you get this?"

  "Sometimes us guys can be serious. Man-talk."

  "Interesting. O.K., thanks Mr. Plover. She hasn't got long left, confined to bed and wheelchair now." Matron turned and left to continue her rounds.

  It was late afternoon before I was allowed to be wheeled in to Jake's room. He weakly and slowly raised his previously useless right arm and did a pretence at a wave. The smile on his face was barely contorted, and the dribble from his mouth and watery tear ducts were gone.

  He uttered some words, but as I was unprepared for concentrated listening, I missed it. I was looking at the assisted breathing tubes up each nostril. His speech was still garbled and slow.

  "What did you say chatterbox?"

  With an effort, he managed to get out some words. “Did you say, How are you, you bloody prick?"

  The smile beamed on his face.

  "Yeah," came back a loud reply that required him to discharge a large amount of oxygen.

  He raised his good left arm and gave the thumbs up. It was still attached to a monitor

  "I'm fine. You had me worried yesterday, but you look a lot better today."

  "Yeah," again came the loud reply.

  "I've seen the physio come into your room several times. Are they starting that stuff already?"

  "Yeah."

  "Firstly I've gotta warn you about that guy."

  The curiosity showed on his face.

  "Because of your age you'd remember the Nazi doctor who practiced medical experiments in Germany on people, then fled to South America after the war. That was Dr. Mengele."

  He nodded.

  "
Your physio is his younger brother."

  Two garbled words came out. The second of which was definitely the word "Off."

  I then told him of my run-in with the physio, then his transition into an angel after my description of his methods.

  I was hoping his laughter was not going to set off some alarm in the monitor.

  I did all of the speaking after that, rather than let him get frustrated with my inability to understand what he was trying to say.

  About 20 minutes after I entered Jake's room, the physio entered.

  "Good afternoon Mr. Plover," he said to me with a smile. Then, "you're looking better Mr. Fantham."

  "Hi," I said. "I suppose I should be leaving."

  The physio nodded.

  "He needs to get out in time for bowls opening."

  "So I've heard," replied the physio. "We'll have him back on his feet in a day or two. We've just got to get his balance right. Might need walking-sticks for a week or two though."

  I tried to steer the wheelchair with arm-power toward the door. I suddenly realised how weak I was.

  "Hang on a second," said the physio, "I'll get a nurse to help."

  While the physio had his head out of the door to signal a nurse I turned my head back to Jake.

  "Remember South America."

  The nurse entered and wheeled me back to my own bed.

  ----------

  Over the next three days I visited Jake twice each day, but was only allowed 10 to 15 minutes each time. He did indeed show a remarkable improvement. With considerable concentration I could understand most of the words he was saying.

  On the fourth day I saw the physio take a walking frame into Jake's room. My opinion of the physio had changed enormously. It seemed he had taken Jake's bowling day opening as a personal challenge.

  I was not able to see Jake until the next afternoon. As the nurse wheeled me in, Jake was out of bed leaning on his walking frame. The nurse panicked, rushed over to grab Jake, and lowered him gently back into bed.

  "Why'd you do that nurse?" came out the slightly garbled words.

  "You're not meant to be out of bed yet."

  "Oh yes I am," he went on. "I'm practicing."

  I could hear the steely resolve.

  "I'll be back in a minute," said the nurse. She vanished out the door.

  "What the Hell are you doing Jake?"

  "I want to play too, not just sit and watch."

  "For Christ sake, leave some glory for someone else."

  "But my father did it."

  "For how many years."

  "Singles champion six of the next ten years. President for eight years."

  "How many members in the opening year?"

  Jake paused, "about 20 I think."

  "How many now?"

  "Over 300."

  Matron burst in the room.

  "What do you think you're doing, Mr. Fantham?"

  "Just trying to do some extra therapy."

  "Don't you think we know what we're doing here, Mr. Fantham? Don't you think the physio is qualified in rehabilitation?"

  I noticed she cast a quick glance in my direction when she said that.

  "You'll be no good to anyone with a pulled muscle or sprained ankle. The physio knows when and how to maximise your recovery."

  Jake lowered his head. He knew he could not win this argument.

  "Sorry Matron."

  "Rest up now. Mr. Plover can visit you tomorrow." The Matron turned my wheelchair, took me back to my room and helped me into my bed.

  "You're not part of that stupidity are you, Bill?"

  It was the first time she had used my first name. It sounded good even if was said with a touch of anger.

  "Of course not, Margaret."

  "Matron," she said strongly.

  "Please keep an eye on him," I said.

  "Just what I was going to say to you," she replied. A curt nod to me and she left the room.

  My room-mates looked at me for explanation. I briefly explained what happened.

  Little conversation followed, and the evening followed the usual routines.

  ----------

  Over the next three days I visited Jake on a daily basis, still limited to 10 to 15 minutes. By the third day he was using his walking frame, always in the company of a nurse or the physiotherapist; in 10 to 15 minute spells up and back the corridor of the ward, three times daily. Each day the distance covered was slightly greater.

  In our conversations it seemed Jake had accepted the realisation that he was unlikely to be able to play to his best form on opening day, but at least he might be able to play a few ends.

  His mind had begun concentrating on the things he could do for the club as president.

  A further three days after that I was surprised to see him appear at the door of the room. Big smile on his face, he was leaning heavily on two walking sticks.

  He acknowledged the look of my three room-mates with a nod; then slowly made his way to my bed-side.

  I sat up in my bed unsure as to whether to call Matron, or what else I should do.

  He flopped into the chair next to my bed.

  "Don't worry," he said. "This is all approved by everyone. In a few more days I should be down to one walking stick."

  "Congratulations. Bloody marvellous."

  "I see you've had a room-mate change," he said quietly.

  "Yeah, the English guy was discharged. New guy's Australian, quiet, doesn't say much."

  "You know, I've been thinking about running some ideas past you about how I can attract more and younger members of your age group to the club. Probably better if you make some suggestions. Think about it eh?"

  "Sure."

  The old Scot opposite called out. "What weight are you using?"

  Jake replied something in pounds and ounces.

  "What's the green speed?"

  Again Jake replied something about seconds, then, asked "Where do you play?"

  "West End," replied the Scot.

  "I was there last year for a round of the grade inter-club tournament."

  I sat quietly by, saying nothing and pretending to be an interested spectator. I was pleased Jake had met someone with the same fanatical interest.

  A few minutes later, a nurse put her head in the door and walked up beside Jake's chair.

  "Time's up Mr. Fantham. I'll help you back.

  Jake tried with difficulty to stand up by himself. Then with the nurse helping his balance more than lifting him, he stood. The nurse removed the obstacles in his path and he shuffled off slowly, followed closely behind by the nurse, arms ready in case he lost his balance.

  I watched the sad figure depart. I was still sad despite the fact that he was showing remarkable resilience. He had compromised on his targets and shown practicality and acceptance of other people's wisdom, knowledge and experience.

  Over the next few days I watched him set out on his three time a day routine walks up and back down the ward, walking sticks at times askance as he would try something else in his walking style. He would acknowledge my seeing him with a smile, depending how far through his exercise routine he had gone. At the end of the routine he could be seen to be visibly tired. Those times, I would get only a very cursory nod, as he would return to his bed to rest. But frequently before his physical routine began he would visit for five to ten minutes.

  Over those same few days the Irish patient was sent to a general ward, replaced by a Turkish patient who talked loudly in his sleep, in Turkish.

  It meant I was able to discover a secret that the old Scot thought he had kept to himself. Because he woke as easily as I when the Turk started his sleep-talk, he would take the opportunity to release the wind in his bowels and stomach as loud as he could. "Bloody wog," he would mutter. The noise was obviously enough to disturb the Turk who would stop talking.

  ----------

  It was three weeks to go to opening day. Jake came into my room, all smiles. He was still using two walking sticks and s
till slurring his words slightly, but no worse than anyone who has had false teeth newly fitted.

  "I've shown them I can dress myself. I've been helping the nurses change the bed. They get pissed off though because it slows them up. But I've shown them I can even get up steps."

  "Great, so what happens now?"

  "I've told them that I'll be staying with my cousin and his wife when I first get out."

  "You're not bull-shitting them are you?"

  "No. They've agreed to come in and chat with Matron about what they have to do.”

  "That's all?"

  "Well, as long as I don't drive a car until I've been cleared for it, no alcohol; stick to my diet and pills, and be sensible in not trying to over-achieve. As long as I continue to progress like this, Matron said the 'doc' would let me go before the weekend."

  "Hell that's only four days away."

  "You're damn right. Hey, it’s a bit scrawly but I can even write my name."

  "What about the bowls?"

  "Stuff that. Just get me out by opening day. I've got lotsa friends they’ll get me around."

  "Then?"

  "Well, voting for president starts a week before opening day. I'm on the papers. It's between me and an old guy that's just moved to the district. Never even been on the committee. No-one else stood."

  "Rigged ballot eh?"

  "Yeah, but I'm still not officially president."

  Matron entered. "I thought I might find you here."

  We both turned and greeted her.

  "Telling you about his good news then?"

  "Yeah," I said. "It is."

  "I was going to send Mr. Fantham to a general ward for a couple of days because he's well enough. Seeing we've got a few spare beds in this ward at the moment, he's staying here."

  Jake and I nodded.

  "Well then," said Matron, "I was pretty sure you'd lost track of time."

  "Jeez," said Jake, struggling to get up quickly. "My physio."

  "Yes," replied Matron. She stood by, not assisting Jake to rise to his feet pushing on his sticks. "Mohammed goes to the mountain now. Part of his therapy."

  "See you later Bill," Jake called over his shoulder as he shuffled to the door.

  "You've plenty of time Mr. Fantham," said Matron. "Don't overdo it."

  He didn't reply. The determination was visible in his dogged but still a little shaky step.

  "What about my release, Matron?” I asked.

  "Gotta get your condition settled first."

  "Go on, you love me so much you can't let me go."

  "That'll be enough of that, Mr. Plover."

  I knew immediately I had overstepped.

  "Sorry."

  "I'll see you on afternoon rounds," she said, and left.

  ----------

  When Matron returned after visiting she had a concerned look. It did not change while she took my pulse, blood pressure and so on.

  "You look worried, Matron."

  "Just wondering how to approach a problem."

  "Hey, I can be sensible sometimes."

  "I know; that's why I'm going to ask you what I should do."

  "Go for it."

  "I know how close you and Mr. Fantham are, so I guess you might be able to suggest an approach."

  "Oh God, they haven't changed their minds about his release."

  "No. It's his wife. She's slipped into a coma. Last few days of the cancer. She won't come around. She'll go at any time in the next few hours."

  "Well, quite honestly, I think he'll be relieved. I know he was worried about the bitch dying on opening day to try and piss him off'."

  Matron smiled.

  "No, he won't suddenly become melancholic. I think he'd actually be quite happy or relieved. He joked about wishing she was on a heart monitor just so as he could turn it off. He was serious, but he worried what would happen if he got caught."

  "I just didn't want anything to upset his progress," said Matron.

  "If she's in a coma she can't get to him like last time."

  "Thanks."

  She made some notes on my chart and left.

  About an hour later I saw her enter Jake's room and close the door. I guessed what was going to be said and waited anxiously.

  After 20 minutes she emerged, left the door open and came directly to see me.

  A smile on her face, she said, "you were right, I almost had to stop him dancing.”

  I smiled back.

  "He's putting on his gown and slippers. Wants to come over to tell you the good news, so pretend you haven't heard anything please."

  She left rapidly to avoid being seen in my room by Jake.

  When he came in he started to sing an out of tune and garbled version. "Ding, dong the witch's dead, which old witch? The wicked witch." He sat down, putting his walking sticks across the foot of my bed.

  "What the hell are you on about Jake?"

  "The old bitch is in a coma. Can't touch me any more. She'll be dead before I leave. There is a God after all.

  "C'mon Jake. Have a heart."

  "Hell no. I never wanted to marry her. My wedding was a shotgun. The bitch lied, she wasn't pregnant. I had all those years paying for her lies. No more nagging lies."

  I just nodded. I had thought that possibly somewhere deep down there might be some sadness. I was wrong. Even looking at his face it looked like he was suddenly ten years younger.

  "God," he said, "it's like all my burdens have gone. Better than having your mortgage wiped. She's gone."

  "Not quite, Jake. Just in a coma."

  "But just hours away," he said with a smile. Then he punched the air. "Yes."

  He saw me looking at him.

  He said, "Sorry Bill, I know a normal person would not react like this. I should at least pretend to show some sense of loss, but apart from the days my children were born, this is the happiest day since before I met the witch."

  I tried to keep changing the subject, but it kept returning to this happy event. I even asked what his proposals were for changes to the bowling club. Even those only temporarily distracted him.

  Thankfully Matron returned and ordered him back to his room.

  With considerable reluctance he left.

  The rest of the day's routine followed, broken only by the night until the morning brought its 'de ja vu'.

  Jake followed the breakfast trolley on its rounds, thankfully without trying to pass plates to patients. He broke off his pursuit at his own room to eat his own breakfast sitting in his chair.

  On the collection round he followed the trolley again from his own room around the rest of the ward. Even though he knew Matron could not see him, her hours were around 7:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., he was trying to reinforce in everyone's mind that he was fit enough to leave. He knew Matron would get to hear of his 'breakfast round'.

  It was late morning when he popped in, appearing at the door like a gunfighter with two long barrelled pistols. When he saw that I had noticed him he swirled one of his walking sticks in a bad Charlie Chaplin imitation. It was not to flaunt his Chaplin skills, but to show he could support himself on one cane if necessary. He sat quite easily in the chair by my bed.

  "If I get the O.K. from physio this morning, the doc'll rubber stamp it and I'll be gone tomorrow."

  "I guess I have to finish the escape tunnel by myself then," I said.

  "You know," he said suddenly becoming serious, "it's been an interesting time in here. Yeah, it seems boring at the time, and everything seems dull routine, but when you think about the room door that was open last night might just as easily be closed when you wake up this morning. You know then some old bugger's died. Yet you never see the body removed. It's all covered up in the routine."

  I nodded. I thought back over the last three weeks in this ward. He was right. At least a dozen patients had died in that time and I had not seen one wheeled out. I did not know about the previous ward as I was not conscious enough to be aware.

  "The routine protects u
s like a flock of sheep. Immediately we break away from the flock, like having a heart attack, the doctors, physios, everybody works hard to get us back into the flock where the nurses can handle us with the everyday routine."

  "You been reading Aristotle or Plato, Jake?"

  "Nah. Its just that my mind's been clearer in the last 24 hours or so than its been for years. Makes me feel good. No burdens."

  Rising quickly with now well practised skills, he looked at me and started another out of tune vocal "Hi Ho, Hi Ho, to the physio I go," then he turned and left.

  I saw him return just before 1:30 p.m. He pointed one of his walking sticks at me, then, waved it like a musician’s baton. I knew I was going to miss him when he left. I just hoped it was not going to be too long before I was also able to leave.

  ----------

  The pain killer pill arrived at the same time as the mailman, just before visiting. After swallowing the pill I thought I would show my independence and upset my wife by opening my own mail. It was only two get well cards from out of town friends, but appreciated nevertheless. I think my wife had been checking my mail for some card or letter from a secret lover. I had never been that lucky.

  The visitors came and went, and I knew that soon after they had gone the late afternoon rounds of Matron and the ward doctor would begin. Good old routine. I anxiously awaited this one though as Jake would hopefully get his all clear.

  I looked toward his room and could see only half of him. He was putting on his dressing gown ready to visit me. He rounded the end of his bed and stopped when he saw me. He had a strained expression on his face.

  Then he dropped one walking stick, swayed a bit, dropped the other and put both his hands to his chest. His mouth opened wide and his face contorted as he crashed to the ground.

  I sprung out of bed and as fast as my wasted legs could move I ran to his room. As I passed through the corridor section I heard Matron's voice scream, "Mr Plover."

  As gently as I could I picked up the suddenly frail looking Jake, still clutching his chest, and lowered him on his bed.

  He gurgled out, "Fuck. Pain."

  I grabbed his emergency button and pressed it hard though I guessed Matron would soon be behind me.

  "I can't make opening Bill."

  "Shut up Jake."

  Matron pushed me out of the way and yelled at me. "Get back to bed Mr. Plover."

  I moved slowly toward the door and looked back at Jake. Matron was already astride him pumping his chest. More nurses brushed past me as they ran through the door. Matron calmly called out orders as she continued to pump his chest. As I crossed the corridor I saw a nurse rapidly pushing a box shaped container on wheels.

  'Thank Christ for wheels,' I strangely thought.

  As I entered my own room a nurse closed the door to our room behind me. I could no longer see what was happening.

  My room-mates looked at me in surprise. I could not say anything. I got back into my bed and lay on my sorest side so the pain distracted me.

  Whatever they were doing it seemed to take too long for anything good to come out of it.

  Eventually Matron opened the door and came across to my bed. I looked past her to Jake's room. The door was closed. I looked down, but I did not know what I was looking at.

  "Firstly," said Matron in her sternest voice. "Don't you ever get out of bed like that for whatever reason. It was a stupid thing to do."

  I waited for her second and maybe third point. They never came.

  She sat down in the chair and took my hand to check my pulse.

  "See, this is racing, you've broken out in a sweat, you're respiration's fast. You silly dear sweet man; nobody knows why he suddenly had that attack"

  We sat like that for a few minutes, her still holding my hand. I needed it right then as I felt the tears stream down my cheeks.

  I tried to pull myself together. I sniffed, cleared my throat and used my fingers to wipe away the tears.

  "Can I pop in and see him for a few minutes alone please?"

  She delayed for a few seconds. "No Bill."

  Frustrated anger swelled up. "Oh shit," I yelled. I'm not asking for the moon, just to pay my respects while he's still warm. He has no family for Christ sake."

  "Bill, when someone dies they loose bladder control and..."

  "I know that," I interrupted. "Some people call it the smell of death."

  She paused. "All right then. Just five minutes."

  She left the room and returned a couple of minutes later with a wheelchair.

  She stopped outside Jake's door.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  She opened the door and wheeled me in, then left, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  The smell of urine was already permeating the room. A sheet was pulled up over his face. For some illogical reason I thought it might be stopping him breathing; I reached up and pulled the sheet down below the level of his mouth.

  I took a sharp breath when I saw his face. No mortician had yet done the make-over. Though his eyes were closed, his mouth was open and slightly pushed to one side. His face was a light grey in colour as the blood had already drained from his face.

  He looked ten years older than he looked on the first day I saw him. Shrunken cheeks, hair messed up.

  I sat back and rolled my wheelchair half a wheel away from the bed and looked around the room. I wondered how many other deaths this room had seen.

  His dark blue jacket, red, white and blue angle-striped tie tucked into the pocket, buttoned up white shirt underneath and light blue trousers were on a hanger on the wall opposite his feet. Matron had done her thing.

  An opened envelope sat on the table beside his bed.

  'What a tragedy,' I thought. 'From some well wisher whose wishes could not save him.' I wondered what they would think if they knew what had happened.

  I picked up the envelope and pulled out the contents. It was a letter. I opened it up and started to read.

  "Jacob, By the time you get this I may already be dead, but I hope not. I want to stay alive just long enough to see you burn in Hell. Then I would like to chase you through eternity screaming at you for all the abuses you put me through. You made my life a misery from the first day of our marriage. You never had the guts to talk to me because you never listened to what I had to say."

  "The only time you wanted sex after we married was just to satisfy yourself. Thankfully that was seldom but still too often for me. Having sex with you was repulsive. But thankfully I still enjoyed my sex life, just not with you."

  "I was still pretty to look at way back then. I had several lovers from among your neighbours. How else do you think I ever managed to have the two children. So you were never blood father. My children weren't yours that’s for sure."

  "In the early years I managed to keep them away from your influence. Then, you buddy-buddied them into your confidence. You don't know how much I then laughed to see you playing with someone else's children.”

  "I wish stronger than anything that you die a painful death before 'opening day'. You deserve that. And I hope I see you die first."

  “Your hating wife.”

  “Alma."

  I folded the letter, put it back in the envelope and put it in my pyjama pocket.

  Matron put her head around the door. "Had enough?" she asked.

  I exhaled deeply, and nodded. Matron wheeled me back to my room.

  "Heard anything about his wife?" I asked as I crawled into my bed.

  "Funny you should ask. The Matron from the cancer ward phoned while you were in Mr. Fantham's room. She died about 15 minutes ago."

  "Oh shit," I said. "The bitch has won it all."

  She looked at me with a questioning expression and made me sit up while she ruffled up my pillow.

  I took the envelope from my top pocket and gave it to her. "Here's the reason for his last attack."