Papworth

 

A Brush with the Angels

 

Dedicated to Prof. Wallwork and his team

 

I arrive on a dark Bank holiday Monday, everywhere shut up ! Find my way to the nurses station who take me to a private room, very nice! Next morning instructed to put on hospital gown, ready to go to theatre to fix my heart.

 

***********

Man in the next bed to me seems to be in a state of fit, held down by nurses, tubes and things poking out of him all over. Seems strange, have they just brought him in like that? I look across at another bed where they seem to be imploring a man to wake up, he also has tubes all over him.

 

Am I in some kind of mad house?

 

There are computer screen lights winking away where various shapes are bending over prostrate forms as they adjust tubes, and strangely get down on the floor to observe what is in a plastic bag. When these are carried away I see that it is pee! I’m not sure if it is night or day, am I in some kind of factory?

 

Am I mad, no, I know it is me, of course I know it is me, I am here for a heart operation. They are going cut a lump of heart muscle out of the way, open up the ventricle so that it can pump blood, improve my breathing, they have promised I will get skiing again!

 

Well, when are they are going to do me, I seem to be waiting a long time! A strange shape bends over me.

‘You OK Derrick?’ I’ve agreed they can call me Derrick.

Of course I am ok, when are they going to do my op., it’s getting late?

 

‘You’ve been done, look’

 

I look down at my chest and there is a cross of sticking plaster down my sternum. I am puzzled by this, when can they have done it, I don’t remember anything. But what day is it? I’ve no idea, I seem to have lost a day! I look across this strange room, shadow laying on shadow, recumbent forms, strange creatures in dark colours move silently among them speaking words I do not understand.

 

Troglodytes - I am in a world of troglodytes, down in their factory where they process without regard to the outcome. Stand alone computer pods flicker in the dim lighting, faces stare uncomprehendingly at them. They stand upright as if ready to take over at the slightest disregard of their power. 

 

‘We will move you now,’ a sweet face says, ‘Welcome back.’

 

***********

‘I don’t know why they ever introduced these, the other system was just as good. I can’t reach the thing anyway.’

 

The whining Australian voice of Kath assaults my ears. My mind swirls, I am in an Australian soap opera now. How could this be, have I been transported from troglodyte land to Aussie land.

 

I open an eye, God there she is, Kath, this is too much!

She whines on about how it is not right, but when pointed out that that is how it is by a colleague she agrees in the disjointed Kathy way as if it is nothing to do with her anyway.

 

‘What do you want for your lunch?’ asks another voice.

 

Alarm bells ring. The food in Papworth is awful I hear a distant voice say, I had to take it in for Alan. Alan? He’s a wimp. I’m army trained, bring it on. A plate of what looks like it is out of the bins is put in front of me. I gag, perhaps he is not a wimp after all! I force it down under threat from the lady who I grow to hate, and immediately sick it back up.

 

Then I want the thing, the idea I hated most, the commode, only to find I had constipation! Straining when your sternum has been sawn apart is not recommended.

 

‘Hello love, how are you?’

It’s Joan, and Elizabeth.

I’m not sure. Well, I am quite well enough under the circumstances, I am back in the land of the living. I learn later that I am quite lucky to be back.

 

‘How’s the food, was Annie right?’

 

She was damn right but what do you do about it, the horror of the cooking lady swims before my eyes. I’d asked for omelette, a dry shoe leather had come, but what about the eggs I asked, oh no, we are not allowed to use real eggs, this is powder. I felt nauseous, the last time I had something made from egg powder was in 1945!

 

‘I’ll bring something in to go in the microwave.’

 

I smiled weakly and agreed with the wave of my hand, but what would Mrs cooking lady say? I swirl away and they are gone!

 

A band of brothers stare down at me, they mutter to one another presumably about me. Ah, the officer class of the hospital, surgeons, budding surgeons, the ones we trust, the ones who do the business when we are rubbing wings with the angels, laid out with our hearts in their hands as they wield their knives and saws. Who guides their hands. Why do they make it seem so impersonal, like a factory, surely the spirit of God is with them?

 

‘We have not had to replace your Mytral valve.'

 

‘Thank you,’ I say.

I had hoped that would be the case, anyway that is good news because I am sure it will save having to take more tablets. Another voice chimes in.

 

‘We may have to consider a pace maker, because the bottom part of you heart is not responding to the natural signals. We will review it on Monday.’

 

The group move on. Dispensed with that then, but I can’t take it in to analyse, Monday, ha, oh well we’ll see. I drift away.

 

************

 

Cardboard boxes, more cardboard boxes. I have been moved again and I observe these boxes being stacked up by somebody’s bed just round the corner.

 

I think of skiing. I’m always keen to tell anybody that I can ski. I dream away, top of black run seven from the top at Mayrhoven, I do that, down black seven. I tell the nurse, I do this to assure them that I am not just an old man stuck in this bed, they are very sympathetic!

 

More cardboard boxes, piled up this time, what are they doing?

 

I look across and two more men have been wheeled in and are being attended by the usual busy staff. Tubes and pipes put in, implored to wake up. One has his wife with him, she smiles and laughs with him as if he has just completed some difficult task, you know he is a hero, but I detect the shadow in her smile, but I give him a thumbs up.

 

A little dark man is sorting them out when he looks across at me.

‘You look like Clint Eastwood.’

I don’t register this at all.

’You know, out of The Bridges of Madison County?’

Yes, I remember the film.

’I will give you a shave.’

Ah, I see, I am looking a bit grizzled.

He comes over cradles my head in his arms and works steadily away with my electric razor.

‘There,’ he says, ’I used to be a barber.’

I lay back digesting this bit of information, it seems a bit odd at the least.

 

More cardboard boxes. They rip them open and inside is a plastic bag full of what looks like water, they then stab them as if to create a mixture and carry them away round the corner.

 

I have had constipation and I don’t want anymore. I ask for something, they give me senna and some drink. In the night I call with some urgency for the commode. Too late. I am mortified, sorry, sorry, I cry. I am near to tears. Don’t worry they say, and they carry on talking normally as they change then bed - all in days work I suppose.

 

Then the mortician takes over. I have nicknamed him mortician because of his bent and hang dog air. It’s odd, he makes it seem that he is doing nothing, just observing waiting for his next client. I grow to like him, he is from America. He is on his own, and just likes to travel around.

 

**********

‘We’ll put the pacemaker in tomorrow.’

That’s that then.

The pacemaker type surgeon explains all about it.

 

Placed just below the shoulder, so small you can’t see it, he will thread wires down into my heart and the pacemaker will give my heart a regular beat, lasts ten years, piece of cake! There are questions but I am too tired to force them. The mortician takes me down.

 

I am on a trolley in X Ray world, nurses in heavy protective smocks fuss around, giving me their names and reassurances. The boss man comes along and explains what he is about to do and there is nothing to worry about. I recall local anaesthetic being mentioned but am not aware of anything, a voice might have said ‘there that’s done‘, but no more. 

I come round back in the care of the mortician. I wonder if he has been standing by to take me up into the clouds.

 

The cardboard boxes continue to come and go.

 

I look up, ha, the band of brothers again looking suitably serious and uncomprehendingly at the computer screen. A young girl full of self importance checks my pulse. Their leader, with the look on his face as if piles are bothering him, makes silent pontifications which they all pretend to take in as behoves homage to the great man. They pass, the girl managing a rueful smile.

 

Mrs cook appears, oh how I hate that face. A nurse says can I do something for you, yes, I say, my wife left some microwave meals can I have the chicken and rice. It was delightful. I’m not sure where I am, pills and drinks come and go. They are all so deadly efficient.

 

The silent man continues on his cleaning path, then to my surprise I hear him say,

’ Jak se mate?’ to a pretty girl passing by.

She turns and smiles,

’Very good!’

I recognise it as Czech for 'How are you?' But she has gone, well, well, a little flirtation from the silent man.

 

The mortician takes me back to my room and I, bid a sad, if relieved, bye, bye.

Mary Popins appears again, full of joyful happiness.

‘Do you want me to give you a shower.’

I consider it but can find no sensual pleasure in it but agree.

‘You won’t need this any more.’ And unplugs me.

 

Unplugs me! Slowly the realisation comes that I have been kept alive by a machine operating the beat of my heart. There must be a song somewhere there.

 

A young girl, ebony black, is the first to appear with the morning dawn. She takes my pulse and weighs me - 67kilos! 67kilos, I am normally 75! No wonder I look down and see a bag of bones tied up in a sack, Jeesus, a year ago I was in the gym with rippling muscles, alright small ones. I cry in despair.

 

Joan, my wife comes to see me. I burst into tears. I cry uncontrollably in her arms. Its unstoppable. It is somehow to do with I am not in charge anymore, and I am somehow adrift and someone else has to make the decisions. I am the child, but worse what about if I was on my own?

 

My daughters turn up an I am blubbering again. I remember when they were my children , I taught them to swim, to dance, to roller skate, to ice skate, played with them in the garden, now the tables have turned and I am the child, and worse, there is no way back.

 

The nurse comes in to take my blood pressure,

’Now girls,’ I say, ’ this is for real, this is not Holby City.’

They burst out laughing,

‘We’ve all been in hospital dad, I’ve had two caesareans, do you want to see the scars.’ And they are lowering their skirts to compare scars. I am suitably humiliated!

 

The days pass, the food is much improved, I get out into the corridor. The man across the way is still here after six weeks. Try as he might he cannot walk any distance. They are going to let him go home with a wheeled walking frame. His wife is a nice little lady, how is she going to manage, he is a big man and will take some looking after?

 

I invite the scatty lady from next door to come in. She tells me she must go home, but they won’t let her. But she must, her brother has just died and there is no one else to sort things out! A nurse comes in and tells her she is going for a scan shortly. What sort of scan I ask, a brain scan! I have to contain my laughter. It seems after whatever they did for her heart she had a sort of fit, and that has to be checked before they will let her home!

 

And so it is my turn to go home. The Prof. comes to see if all is well. I thank him for what he has done to bring me back to normal. He beams away, but I think he is playing his cards close to his chest.

 

My wife had told me that my heart had stopped and that I was a very sick man ( maybe that accounts for the angel dust on my body), so I presume the Prof. had pulled me through, and what can you say to that? I feel that some hand had guided me to him, and I am thankful for that.

 

And so I leave the factory where people are repaired, fixed up, made new and sent on their way. Bless you all.

Derrick Noble - May 2007