He was lying there by the window in a four bed bay on Huntsman 5 Ward at The Northern General Hospital. He was wearing hospital pyjamas with a small repeating word pattern: "Property of the NHS". I noticed that two of the other old men in the room were wearing the same. The fourth man was sitting up in a high chair next to his bed. He wearing a white T-shirt and khaki coloured shorts. The fifth person in the room - apart from me - was an African nurse in a lilac coloured uniform.
I brought Bert a "Get Well Soon" card and a carton of seedless grapes that I had picked up at the local Co-op store. Isn't that what you are meant to bring hospital patients? Grapes. It always used to be the case.
At first all seemed fine - a continuation of our lunch conversation at the Hungry Horse pub last week but gradually I realised that something was amiss.
Above the bed were ceiling panels and several light boxes plus curtains runners.
"Can you see them?"
"See what?"
"Those clouds in them boxes. Can you see them moving?"
"No I can't see a thing Bert."
"You must be able to see them. Can you see them webs then?"
"No I'm afraid not."
"They can bring those things down you know? They can lower the roof to flood this place. They've just got to pull that red cord."
It was getting weird and it struck me that Bert's head was all over the place. He didn't know if he had had an operation or not. He thought he would be getting out of hospital tomorrow. He implied that the staff were conspiring against him. He didn't know what day or time it was. This was a different Bert from the one I saw last week.
He pulled his bed sheet across and tried to show me the site of his hip injury even though I had just told him that I didn't want to see it.
Though his eyesight is quite good for a man in his 87th year, he still needs to wear spectacles for everyday use but there were none on his bedside table nor in his locker. It struck me that he was lying there in a hazy world - still sometimes unsure of what he was doing there and lurching between clear-sightedness, confusion and fantasy.
After twenty minutes I wanted to get the hell out of there and I was saved by the arrival of Bert's youngest son and his ex-wife Pat.
"Right I'm off now Bert. I'll leave you with your family. I hope you are home again soon. Take care!"
"Thanks Neil. Thanks for coming."
And I drove Clint back across the city at the very time that schoolchildren were pouring out of their various schools causing a consequent growth in traffic. Crawling along, I felt sad to think that Bert will never get back to where was before Christmas - thrice a week walking up to the pub he has visited regularly for sixty years and walking home again after four or five pints of Tetley's bitter. The wheel has turned and where he is at now, it feels like the beginning of the end. I hope I am wrong.
from Yorkshire Pudding https://ift.tt/NxSORaV
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