The Zombie Files
Unh, what day is it? I went back to the cottage last night, had a nice warm relaxing bath surrounded by candles which there always seem to be a lot of burning lately,* read a few pages of a very silly novel** and got to bed at what counts in my case as early. Began blissfully drifting off . . . and jerked awake again to make mostly grim and absolutely totally useless plans about possible futures. At the moment we have no idea how it’s going to go with Peter. He may recover completely. He may not. But hey, I’m not going to let a little thing like no practical information stop me from persecuting myself.
Meanwhile mundane reality is beginning to intrude. Peter is clearly better. But the hospital is driving me crazy. I got a phone call from the nurses’ station that Peter was worrying about his plate, since he thought it had come in with him and he couldn’t find it. I rang them back to say that it was safe at home. They never passed the message on. They moved him to another ward without telling us, so Alastair got there for morning visiting hours and there were no morning visiting hours.*** In the transfer they’ve managed to lose the twenty quids’ worth of a brand-new tube of the skin cream we both use.† It took me half an hour to park and then find my way back to the ward I wanted—not because I didn’t know where I was or where I was going, but because moving around Gormenghast Hospital is like one of those Escher drawings where one thing turns into another thing leaving you, gravitationally speaking, the wrong side of a very long limb you’ve just climbed out on.
We were told yesterday that they wanted to keep him in for a couple of days to run some tests. Okay. Except they aren’t running the tests. Nothing at all happened today, including a visit from the doctor. A doctor. Any doctor. I asked why not. Nobody knew. Somebody did say that the mxlfrabble machine had broken down, so there weren’t any mxlfrabble tests being taken today. Okay, I said, what about the gruvgunc team we’re supposed to be waiting for a report from? They didn’t know. Well, who’s in charge of gruvgunc? Oh, no one is in charge, I was told. They’re a team. It’s whoever’s on duty. Um, I said. Well, is there anything like a schedule for this stuff? I’d really like some guess about when I can take my husband home.††
Oh, said the nurse in soothing tones. There’s no schedule. People are in here for a lot of different reasons, you know.
I paused to pull myself together from the shock of this news. Who’s in charge of Peter’s case, then?
The nurse applied to an-already-surprisingly-thick folder. Dr Morgana Tussock, she said.
May I speak to Dr Tussock?
Oh no, said the nurse, obviously beginning to find my cluelessness disturbing. Of course not.
What? I said.
The nurse gestured vaguely toward a large book. You can make an appointment to see the doctor, she said.
Yes please, I said.
Her hours on the ward are from grunch to mumble, said the nurse. What time would suit you?
Half past grunch? I suggested, and she wrote it down. But, she said, you know, doctors. Things come up . . . they have to rearrange what they’re doing. . . .
Which is to say that I may have an appointment to see the doctor some time tomorrow.
* * *
*Luke had a good weekend. I emailed back, well, I’m glad someone did.
** Which I’m hoping to get a blog post out of later. Superior silly.
*** They did let him in. But, he told me later, they made it plain they didn’t want to see him tomorrow morning. Since he went home this afternoon to await further bulletins from the field, this is not a problem.
† http://www.barefoot-botanicals.com/Browse-Products/b/S-O-S-Rescue-Me-Face-Body-Cream.aspx The stuff is amazing. I still have skin thanks to this stuff. If you’re browsing, I recommend their rosa fina range too. Not their copy writer however, who needs a cold shower and a whap upside the head.
†† And start feeding him real food. Dear gods in all the heavens, where do hospitals find the stuff they put on trays at meal times?
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