Tuesday, 21 July 2009

"Life is a train"

Or more like a bus. My mother A and I shamelessly plonk ourselves down on the disabled seats at the front of the bus and sit there in a sort of stupor as we head back to my parents' house after the daily visit and medical crash course at the hospital.

Outside the CT scan department I sat there with my head resting on the back of the chairs, legs stretched out in front of me.

There is a soft sofa in the relatives room by my father's ward I have my eye on. I may curl up there for 5 minutes tomorrow.

Blummin home education, I can't shut up my mind. I am learning about pneumonia, oxygen saturation, oxygen bottles, little pipes to attach this to that, even the names of the medical staff. Debates about morphine levels and anaesthetic gels and other stuff I won't put on here. Learning the pace of a gentle recovery with its fits and starts.

No idea what is going on with T and H off at Centreparcs. No news is good news :)

Anyway our train is visiting all sorts of great places like the lifts, the concourse, georgeous Carluccios opposite the Hopsital, a bookshop to get into debt in, 2nd hand clothes shops, fruit and veg market at the end of our street, all the different taxi routes to the hospital.

I love seeing the newborns carried and cherished right in the middle of the emotion and bustle of everything. Other people stare too, eating them with their gaze.

I spend my life saying 'bless you' silently to each person in a wheelchair or on a trolley, and all the hugely pregnant women coming in for their checks.

I have come to realise that my mother's time off happens while she immerses herself in the newspaper, while mine happens at the screen or channel hopping/big brother watching.

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