WRITINGS
Some Short Stories
CONTENTS
Let Me Die A Young Man's Death
FIRST MOON
ON THE MAN?It was on Wednesday 16 December 1992 when the sad realisation came that I had caught chickenpox. At first the feeble looking outcrops of poxes looked as if they would present only a minimal inconvenience. I laughed in their little faces but I have to admit, it is they who had the last laugh.
On day two the heavy artillery was brought out which resulted in massive outcrops of poxes on virgin skin. To make things worse my glands had enlarged themselves to the point where it became painful to swallow. By the end of day two and for four more days, the poxes had positioned themselves inside my mouth, my ears, under the foreskin of my willie, my testicles, the soles of my feet, but mostly, on my head which ached with excruciating pain. When I looked at myself in the mirror I saw the surface of the moon gazing back and when I touched my head it felt like an ornamental gourd.
I was unable to sleep for longer than 30 minutes at any one time and so was banished from the bedroom by Angela who could not sleep because she said I thrashed around like a wounded animal. I therefore retired to the living room and watched interminable television while roasting myself in front of the fire, occasionally letting out low moans of self pity. My favourite time was bath time (not) when I was required to immerse my pox ridden body into either a solution of vinegar or bicarbonate of soda. After my bath, Angela made me lie down naked on a bath towel and treated my poxes with calamine lotion.
I saw two doctors during my illness who were both sympathetic. I was eventually prescribed heavy duty painkillers but, with regard to the disease itself, they could do nothing. Interestingly, Angela, my wife, had telephoned my Mother to ask her if I had ever had chickenpox before and she said that I had had it when I was about three years old. When I told the doctor this fact he looked at me directly in the eyes and said, "there is no way you have ever had chickenpox in your life before". I thought to myself that I must remember never to rely on information obtained from that source again. I was getting fairly depressed by day five and just wanted to bugger off somewhere and not to come back until I was better. The craters on the surface of my face, particularly on my forehead, were blackening and looked deeper and more disfiguring than ever. I was unable to think straight and communicated mostly by grunting and pointing.
I feel I must devote more time to the "pain" aspect of the illness. Imagine you are standing next to an old fashioned farmer who is cutting his grass with a scythe. Suddenly he slips onto his back and the scythe is catapulted towards your head like the rotating arm of a helicopter blade. You look up and find that a quarter inch of your scalp is missing and lie semi-conscious on the ground. The farmer gets up and you think that he will help you but you're wrong. The farmer, believing he will get into trouble over this incident, decides to finish you off by pummelling the top of your head with his clenched fist. No sorry, I'm afraid that this analogy does not go nearly far enough to describe the pain experienced.
The chickenpox infection was transmitted to me by a neighbour called Fabienne. She, herself, had been ill for less than a week and had suffered relatively lightly. When she came to visit me she took it badly and kept repeating "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry". She acted as though the family cat had died and that it had been her fault. I gave her the necessary reassurances and told her that she would be hearing from my solicitor in due course.
Angela's tales of my condition must have been frighteningly accurate because I had few visitors. My Father did not venture near the place for several days, preferring instead to send a third party along to deliver a bottle of mineral water. When finally he did come to see me, he was unable to look at my face except through the reflection of a mirror. I believe he was more concerned about his own feelings of repulsion than for my well being.
Oh yes, I did get better. The sores stopped tightening around my cranium like hundreds of mini clamps and receeded into permanent scars. But I am not the same - some nights I wake up in a cold sweat and feverishly search my head and body for little lumps!
DID YOU KNOW
THAT LAST YEAR...
- Thirty three people died from choking on chicken bones!
- Forty-five people died from salmonella food poisoning contracted from eating re-heated chicken products!
- Simon Phillips, the author of this newsletter, contracted chickenpox!
THE TONSILLECTOMY
24th October, 1996. I am writing this on my hospital bed. My operation is due tomorrow. They have found minute traces of blood in my urine. Nothing to worry about. They will send a sample away for a more detailed analysis. It won't be a reason to stop the operation. My throat is a little tender - I have just recovered from yet another bout of tonsillitis. I'm getting a sore throat and I've started coughing and I think I've got the early symptoms of a cold. It matters not - I have signed the consent forms and the operation will go ahead as planned. Think on the bright side. It's free. The pain won't cost me a penny.
I'm in Dugdale Ward, the women's section, as there wasn't enough room for me in the men's section. This means I have to be cocooned in a swirl of curtains lest I be seen. There is a patient asleep next to me snoring hideously. When the nurse came to see me she rolled her eyes up at the noise and whispered that she had just had an operation to stop her snoring which was obviously unsuccessful. Another woman (not much younger than me) has just been wheeled in from (I assume) the operating theatre. She was gasping and crying in pain and the porters where telling her to relax as they shoved her onto her bed. Shortly afterwards the surgeon came waltzing through in a dark business suit surrounded by a bevy of nurses. He spoke reassuringly to the patient. "It was a very successful operation - there were no problems at all," he said. The poor woman was still clearly in abject pain. I don't know what operation she's just had but if it was a tonsillectomy - I'm out of here!!!
I worry about Daniel. I don't want him to have another Dad. His parting words to me were (he only talks in the third person at the moment), "Daddy go to hospital to get his throat made better". He is 30 months old. I have just read a news item in the Guardian about a father that tortured his 21 month old boy, Ryan Crossett, to death. The body was found with two broken ankles, a fractured skull and was covered in bite marks and burns. On the day before his death the boy had a key pushed into his neck, was given a cold bath, held against a hot radiator and put to bed. The child died shortly afterwards of a respiratory illness. The man was found guilty of cruelty (which he denied) and given the maximum of 10 years in jail. Two male members of the jury wept in court when sentence was passed. The police described the evidence as deeply disturbing and the investigation as harrowing. The defendant appeared to show no remorse. I found it very hard not to cry. It put things into perspective for me.
25th October, 1996. Today is the day of the operation. I didn't get much sleep. I was kept awake by the soft bleating noises of pain of other patients. Well one in particular whose name is Rosa and who has this bottle thing attached to her nose which has a habit of making periodic bubbling noises. I'm laughing as I write this but I know that in a few short hours I will be transposed into Rosa's boots but my cries of pain will not be pathetic bleats but howls of utter despair that will make Edvard Munch's 'The Scream' look positively happy! The chap opposite me, Martin, is having the same operation straight after me. He seems very bouncy and chatty. We nervously laugh a lot over silly unfunny jokes, e.g., the nurse asks us if we would like a night-cap. "Yes please" replies Martin, "a large brandy for me and a gin and tonic for Simon." Giggles ensue. After a little bit more banter the nurse says "there's nothing to the operation" and then mumbles under her breath deliberately loud enough for us to hear, "for us anyway". Impending doom beckons - the patient is ready. Remember me when I am gone away, gone far away into the silent land, when you can no longer take me by the hand, nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Full of self-pity and robbed in a blue gown that's tied at the back - I am wheeled towards the theatre, half drugged and not fully aware of my surroundings.
26th October, 1996. I have survived. My throat feels like back-end of a dead dingo's arse but at least I'm alive! When I came round they gave me a suppository which was wonderful - it gave me a warm glow from my bottom up. A few hours later I wanted to go for a pee and was startled to find that the nurse shift had changed and I now had a large fat nurse looking after me - she looked a bit like that woman in the movie 'Misery'. As I stumbled towards the loo, (still woozy from the anaesthetic) a large hand grabbed my arm in a vice like grip and guided me towards the door. Amazon woman followed me in and stood behind as I hung my shrunken dehydrated willie out over the toilet bowl. Nothing came but I suddenly felt awfully ill. I told the big chump I was going to be sick so she manhandled me to a sink where I vomited blood - surprisingly fragrance free. She then said she'd get me a wheel chair. I heard it coming down the ward bashing into beds and doors and finally she shoved into the back of my knees causing me to collapse into it. She then spun the chair round but hadn't put the foot flap down so my feet were dangling dangerously over the little front wheels. Every last ounce of my remaining strength was used to prevent my feet being flayed and I was in no condition to make a verbal protest.
* * *
It is now a few months later. I still get sore throats but those old troublesome tonsils that use to flare up like Mount Edna at the merest hint of a streptococcal virus have gone!
LET ME DIE
A YOUNG MAN'S DEATHHave you ever wondered what happens to the bodies of old people who die? I'm not talking about the terminally ill or the victims of road accidents, but the ones who just die peacefully in their homes. The ones who die, to slightly misquote Roger McGough, "clean and in-between the sheets holy water deaths, free from sin tiptoe in candle wax and waning deaths, curtains drawn by angels borne 'what a nice way to go' deaths." Have you ever considered how conveniently their bodies are disposed of; without drama or ceremony, "not with a bang but with a whimper"?
It was on Sunday 20 September 1992 - Angela, my wife, was staying at her guesthouse business that night and I was at home in Glebe Place watching television and guzzling down a bottle of wine and feeling a little drunk. At about 10 pm, Mrs Wills, our next door neighbour, knocked on the door and asked if I would mind helping her husband, Bernard, who had apparently fallen over in the bathroom.
When I got to him, Mr Wills, 86, was lying crouched and motionless between the toilet and the bath with his trousers round his knees. I made a feeble attempt to lift him but knew instinctively that he was dead. Mrs Wills was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs and looked up with expectation but I think she too knew that he was dead. As I came down the stairs I told her that he had had an accident. She made a half-hearted attempt to get up the stairs to see him but allowed me instead to usher her into the dining room. She kept repeating, "Oh please don't tell me that he's gone" and rather embarrassingly I told her to remain calm.
My shaking fingers dialled 999 and asked for the ambulance service. Mrs Wills was listening behind me as I lowered my voice and said, "I think my elderly neighbour has had an accident". To my surprise the operator did not attempt to quiz me any further but said, "I understand". My next step was to telephone Mrs Wills' sister and to wake up the neighbour's opposite, Julia and Steve, for some moral support. They had lived in the street longer than me and knew Mr & Mrs Wills quite well.
What in fact I had done with that single emergency telephone call was to activate a well oiled machine which operated faultlessly that night. Firstly the ambulance arrived, discreetly, followed minutes later by a police constable (to rule out foul play?). Ten minutes later the relatives arrived to comfort Mrs Wills and about twenty minutes after that the doctor arrived, no doubt to write out the death certificate. Their work done, the two ambulance men, the policeman and the doctor left more or less together. An hour or so later the undertaker came to take the body away. Sad, pro functionary but efficient.
Since that day people have spoken to me about Bernard Wills. They say he had lived at that house for over sixty years; that he used to be a saxophone player and toured the country with a band; that he suffered horribly from indigestion later on in life and that he was fiercely independent. Mrs Wills is on her own now and sits in the front room on most days and watches the world go by. I wave to her and have called round several times to see if she wants anything but she never does.
Anyway, that's the end of this edition of Death & Sickness and so, until next month, goodbye.
