March 2005
9
This has been the most extraordinary, busy time. London Book Fair, Orange Prize for Fiction, meeting publishers and agents, reviewing proofs ...
Wow!
But wow, again, because we have collected all the entries to Labyrinth short story competition 9 and our judges have chosen a winner. It's brilliant.
At Last
by Roy Woodard
Oh mum …
There is a volume of medical notes sitting on the receptionist's desk, about 5ins thick, vol. 5 of 5 it says, that's about 20 ins of notes. I'm strangely proud of me mum. It's some form of … of … - valediction.
Her mark on the world.
So I push mum in to see Dr. Singh, only its not him, its his replacement, no, not his assistant, the registrar, 'do come in Mrs Woodard' he say, 'what' says me mum, I shout, SHE'S DEAF,!!! , as though he is deaf as well, he stares at me, (its hard to switch back to normal volume sometimes..) anyway, we're in and that's that, 9 months and masses of phone calls for this appointment, this is it..
'Hwell, hyou-well haarf to hexcuuse me Hdoctooor, H'ime Ha-fraid H'ime ha bit h'deaf,' she says.
'Well I'm pleased to say that your endoscopy shows nothing to worry about, and you …' he chunders on.
'My mother would like the operation' I say.
Blankness.
'The operation, Mr Singh offered it to her last year, she's been thinking about it and thinks she should have it done.'
'I do not think there is any reason to have the operation just yet, You are the …?'
'Son,' I say, 'the son, the son.'
'Better to monitor the situation and come back in 2 months.'
He doesn't say that the op could kill her, that's left unsaid, but, that's the hope of course, that's why I'm so pissed off, so deeply confused and disappointed, so close …
'Monitor this situation!!!' I say. 'She's been suffering from this for 20 years or so.' I say, '20 years or longer' I say, as though repetition is an act of confirmation.
'Well she was last seen a year ago, and has been without symptoms since then.'
'This is, is, is rubbish!!!' I say. 'She has been complaining to me, and the doctor, every couple of weeks with it, she gets admitted to hospital with it about twice a month,' I say, 'bleeding from the, the, the um, backside,' I say
'Well there is no record of this on her files I'm afraid. Best just monitor her diet, that is the best way to control this condition.'
'Rubbish', I say, (I'm 50 and done all the kowtowing I intend to,), 'she's done all that, for years.'
My mum's confused and mumbling , she doesn't know what's going on but suspects it's not good, and she's right on the button on that one …
Doctor says, 'You must take a realistic view of the situation Mrs Woodard.'
This is ridiculous of course, by now my mum is barely on nodding terms with reality, barely on speaking terms with realism as it were, not what you would call a full and frank discussion.
A few more things are said, like I turn to mum.
'When were you last in, in … WHEN WERE YOU LAST… IN .. HOS – PIT – TALL?' I scream some more … my voice cracking after half a day of this shouting …
(Mum doesn't have her hearing aid, its broken, and in my pocket for repair, she has some how forced the battery into the back of the aid, between the battery compartment and the workings, I don't know how she managed it but there you have it … I had finally managed to get it out – you can never find a sharp knitting needle when you need one – by using the key off a tin of Spam, stuck it back together, it was a duff battery, so drove to two shops to get a new one for it, returned to shops to get some fairy liquid, then back again for some milk, semi skimmed, and a bunch of grapes, and it still doesn't work.)
'Oooh not for a long time says me mum, not for years , what with me shoulder and everything,' she grimaces in a demonstration of pain.
'YOU WERE IN ONLY LAST WEEK ,!!!!! LAST WEEK ,!!!!! In the A+E, the Accident and Emergency, TELL HIM!!!' I scream.
'Arghh', she says with pride, phlegm gargling the back of her throat, 'that was with me smoke inhalation.'
(She had last week set fire to her cooker, a full fire crew and a bright cherry red fire engine parked outside her flat, oooh she got such a turn.)
'It was only a bit of toast,' said me mum.
The doctor looks vindicated, the world with all its hospital linoleum rocks beneath me…
'BUT YOU'RE ALWAYS GOING IN TO HOSPITAL WITH YOUR DIVATICULA!!!' I scream. I am desperate now, 'YOU ALWAYS DIALLING 999!!' I say, 'DIALLING 999!!'
'No, no never, I never dial 999,' says me mum.
'Mum!!!' I say, 'you are always going in to hospital on an ambulance, aren't you? YOU ARE ALWAYS GOING IN TO HOSPITAL ON AN AMBULANCE!!! AREN'T YOU!!!! ……. TO ACCIDENT AND EMERGENCY!!!!'
'Ooh yes,' she says, 'that … always that,' she says, 'never out, never.'
The doctor repeats that monitoring … (monitoring! You mean wait around till she's dead, you mean, well I can't bloody wait any longer, I want it now for Christ's sake) is the best thing for now and puts a diet sheet in my hand, and another pamphlet, 'Understanding Diverticula,' the front cover's got a picture printed in tasteful muted grey, a sculptured torso, like something Michelangelo would have done … I think I should explain something here, me mum has been going on about a touch of the old diva for years now, at least 30, I don't want to hear about it, I just don't want to know, I don't even want to know how it's spelt. I don't want to know what is even, although I have a fair idea, I want to die in ignorance of these facts, as clear and as simple as that, and now I've got the bloody pamphlet in my hand.,. Admiring the graphics, the play on words, the 60s typography, in red , running in a squiggly line down the middle, suggestive of the abdominal tract of course, the title 'The Inside Story', oh yes how clever …
Everything else is a bit of a haze, now.
Some more is said, like, 'So I have to prove / to confirm to you that she has been virtually constantly ill with this then.'
'Yes,' he says.
'Right', I say. 'I will …'
I wheel me mum out , backing her out (there is no room to turn the wheelchair round in this little cubical of an office, so we back out , me thanking him, ,me mum confused and hurt, clutching her screwed up tissues, me nodding my head, like I do when I'm nervous, Sir Walter
Raleigh with his old mum's wheelchair …
The people in the waiting room are staring at me. No, I tell a lie, they are … emotionless total blankness, silent, they stare at this screaming man … they have heard it all of course, what with the laminated door being so thin.
I find myself standing in front of the reception desk, I must have been standing there for some time, clutching me head, as I am now, it used to be a joke, my party piece, now its for real, the lady behind the desk gives me this queer look, I struggle to re-enter what I, , generally, make do with as normal behaviour, it's been years of this you see.
The nurse comes out, she is taking pity on me, (I must be in a worse state than I think, people are starting to notice.)
She says, 'I know what its like, I had the same with my mother, they moan to you and then when they get to see the doctor, they say nothing.'
It's a relief to be understood, but I can say nothing, apart from there is part of me that wants to cry. She tells me that I should get the notes from her GP, to prove my point.
'What????' I say, 'you mean that he, the surgeon doesn't have all her notes, these are only his notes …' I look across at vol. 5 of 5 still sitting there , still on her desk, 3 rubber bands stretched to breaking across a fat arsed corset of a cover. 'You mean this is only HIS notes … ??? What about those in accident and emergency ???'
'They're with them,' she says.
'And the doctor's, her doctor's, are with the doctor's, at her own surgery???' I say / ask, so there is no mistake.
'Yes,' she says, 'these are just the doctor's notes.'
'They are all kept separately?????' I say.
'Yes, the GP doesn't send his notes to us.' She says this to me now, slowly, enunciates her words clearly, deliberately, she's thinking now, what she's got here?, what's standing so gormlessly in front of her, wondering if I am a bit stupid maybe, or maybe a bit disturbed, I am that, she could have had that for nothing …
'So,' and I say this slowly back to her, so I can understand, so I can fully get a grip of the thing, 'so how do they know what is going on then? How do they know what the others are doing? How do you know what drugs she is on? How. Do. You. Form. A. Complete. Picture. Of. Her. Condition??!??'
She shrugs.
I am, incredulous, my eyes roll…shall I swoon, or would that be ridiculous… and then it happens, salvation comes from strange places, I catch sight of my mum, she is raising her eyebrows, rolling her eyes to heaven, oh glory glory, pointing from behind her scarf , cupping her hands and pretending to cough (as she always does) pointing with one furtive arthritic finger, a fat woman rolling past.
'Fatty,' she whispers / hisses at me … 'look at the fatty.' She's jerking her head towards the woman, to make sure I know exactly who she's on about, her eyes rolling in fatty's direction for greater effect. The woman stares at her, then me. I'm embarrassed, but, thank God, it's like smelling salts to me, this is, I am back in the world, I'm back in that old familiar wasteland, the same old consideration of whether to start with the laughing or the crying … the tide of a breakdown, edging its way up the beach of my own very personal sanity, (a lot south of being merely colourful,), ebbs its way back out to sea, along with the little yellow ducks and bottles with messages …
Later we are sitting in the hospital coffee area.'Tea, one sugar and make it milky.'
She is watching me making notes and holding my head.
chase doctors
small tweezers / fix earplug
kettle
ring Vanessa
4 pave slabs + spade …
get new tablets
milk and 2 bananas
fix handbag strap
batteries
Stuff like that …
She's looking at me … and this is it, I allow myself , again and again I do this, to think, (it's pathetic really…) but could this be it, has she finally noticed what I do for her, what I am going through. I'm not after praise, or thanks, its not that. Is this communication AT LAST? Radio waves from star clusters make quicker contact … My heart starts its song, sorting out her life, endless notes, endless cups of tea, conversations about 'a nice leg of pork,' her legs, that lady that died, she pauses, a long hesitation, then, here it comes,/ life is out there/ this is it …
'Your hair,' she says, 'do you cut it yourself, or are you losing it?' That is it, that is her question.
Then she belches, doesn't even say pardon anymore, a lazy summer breeze of rich tea digestives and Sterident, her tapping her spoon on the edge of her saucer.
'Losing it,' I say.
*
What a brilliant addition to the Labyrinth.
