Hospital

At ninety-five, on a daily basis, Harry counted his ‘small victories’.

He had outlived most of his friends, not including Mick who was in the local nursing home and wouldn’t remember him anyway.

He was still living on his own, curtesy of a care package from the local council; well, you had to get something back for all those years of paying tax.

And he was about to survive the NHS; no clapping from him on that score.

On his birthday he and his daily medication were taken to his his son’s house, surrounded by those members of the family who had not tested positive for Covid. He had a good time, up until the birthday cake. An almond or a cherry stuck in his throat, and he started coughing. He remembered the look on the faces of the family as his false teeth went flying across the dining table and he passed out.

He could make out shadows through his closed eyelids. He felt tired. He could not move. He could not speak. He could hear conversations around him.

Only one of you will be able to accompany him into the hospital due to covid restrictions. There might be a delay. It’s a busy night in A&E.

He could hear soft crying. Someone holding his hand. Time passing.

Hello, hello, can you hear me? The reception is poor. The doctor told me that they think dad had a massive stroke. They are asking permission for an injection to be given. Hello, hello, can you hear me?

Harry could hear his daughter but knew it was not his opinion that was being sought.

What about the last rites? Can he get them even though he’s unconscious? And you know how he feels about the priest. 

‘Too bloody right’ thought Harry. ‘There’s no way your going to call that miserable depressive bugger. All he preaches about Is dying and if I’m on the way out I don’t want him around me. And please make sure you bury me with my false teeth. I’d like them to play ‘Welcome to my World’ as they take me into the chapel. All of the instructions are in my will.’

The following morning he woke up in the hospital bed. Angela was holding his hand. He smiled and said ‘hello’. He remembered thinking that she now looked as though she should be the one lying on the bed. She rushed from the room and returned with a nurse.

Harry spent the next five days on the ward although he wanted to get home. He had cracked a rib when he fell to the floor at the celebration dinner. The consultant said they should keep him in for observation. Which was considerate thought Harry, given that he had not had a stroke. Any injection – which in fact he was not given – would probably have hurried along to the strains of Jim Reeves.