The comfort of walking into the Costa of a hospital foyer early on Tuesday morning. I am not here as a patient and that makes all the difference. I am the friend who drives.
K has been safely dropped off for her cataract repair and I have a couple of hours to kill. The nurse who calls her is jolly, I can afford to be the same, I’m not having my eye spliced and diced. K is reticent, but gamely laughs along with us as she’s led away to the treatment room. I feel her fear.
I’ve found myself in this position many many times. Almost always the driver of someone else who is the patient. I wonder if I’m drawing nearer to a time when I may be the patient and someone else the driver? Quietly thanking the Universe for bringing me this far, in this way. I worked in hospitals for many years and feel very comfortable in them. There’s a foundational knowledge of the workings that is familiar although I’m aware the NHS has radically changed since my days within its haloed portals. Nevertheless I am oddly at ease.
What is particularly agreeable is the certain knowledge of getting a flat white or cup of tea each time I walk through those clinical hospital doors. Costa’s holds the fort, placed just to the left of the main entrance. It has battered seating and every table has a large pack of Clinell universal wipes. A sign of our times. Since I arrived, it’s busied up. There is a lot of activity. People coming and going, the coffee machine sounds like an aircraft taking off. Babies cry. A lot of chatter. “Skinny latte” … not mine. I’ve secured a large armchair by the window, I am ‘at home’.
Some years ago I had to attend as a patient for investigations which required plugs of scalp being taken, I spotted the coffee shop as I walked through to the department I needed. It was a sort of balm to my jangled nerves. An instant plan formed to return, after my private barbarism was over. I would take my comfort there, nurse myself generously before driving back home. The procedure isn’t terrible, it’s uncomfortable, a hole punch and five samples taken from different sites on the head. Flat white and cherry bakewell sees me right and I sit for half an hour quietly feeling my way back into normal. This is what Costa does, or at least the coffee shop, they provide an element of ‘everything will be ok’ and you can be part of that. It’s restorative.
As I sit and wait, and write, I observe the humanity of the place. Is anything more sobering than a session in a hospital? People’s lives all playing out like a theatre production. Characters entering stage left. Exiting stage right. High drama. Tears. Boredom. Clipboards. “Fuck off” high tension. Queues. Waiting. And me, quiet and feeling well. Not smug in my wellness by any means, but once again I’m here as an audience member and not one of the main players. No saline drips here.
Outside on a rather cold and wet day, two men in pyjamas and with portable infusion bags, sit on the wall to smoke, to talk, they have about 3 feet between them. It’s clear they don’t know each other. They are companions in their smoking and their patient pyjama identity. I pull my coat round me, it’s really cold. They sit in the damp, smoking. I have no idea why they are here in hospital, but next stop must certainly be Pneumonia? Or bronchilitis at the very least? This is their uncomfortable comfort zone, humans are a breed apart.
A robin has just flown in and sits beside my chair. It’s incredibly beautiful. A little visitor who pecks at crumbs of lemon muffin and remnants of toastie scattered on the floor. This little bird knows his territory well and hops with bold confidence between the tables and chairs, pecking, head darting from side to side. I lift my phone to take a picture and he immediately flies away… it’s not the first time this has happened. I’ve seen it at other hospitals too when I’ve been sipping tea over a two hour stretch. I never manage to get the shot.
It’s time to head back to the ophthalmology department. It’s raining heavily. One of the men remains on the wall, he is coughing strenuously and you can hear mucous moving around his chest as you pass. Cigarette still in hand. I wonder if he’ll make it back inside? The waiting area is packed with people of all ages, K is nowhere to be seen. I find a seat to wait. Blue uniforms march the floor from one room to the next, collecting people and packing others off with transparent eye patches taped to their faces. A conveyor belt of production. It’s what’s needed now to bring waiting lists down. Meet targets. Prove value to the health care system. Efficiency and a stream of effectiveness till doors close at 6pm. They’re pretty marvellous.
We ‘the waiting’ are all on phones, scrolling and I on my iPad, writing. Two old magazines on the table, lie unread. The framed print on the wall looks like a place I’ve walked in Paris many years ago, with BB and two very good friends, in the early hours of the morning after a heavy night on the town. The picture on the wall is in black and white, my own memory picture is in black and white. It was dark, atmospherically lit by old fashioned street lights and we got lost on rue La Fayette trying to find our hotel and our beds, brains addled by champagne and brandy, oysters and cigars. Heady days. A far cry from today. I would like more of Paris and less hospital waiting. My gold lurex socks sparkle at me from below trouser hem. A small reminder that I still have a little Paris in me. It’s crucifyingly hot in here. Coat is off and I mentally register how perfect is the environment for bacteria cultivation in hospitals. I’m sought out by the nurse, K is ready for home
We walk slowly back to the car. She talks nineteen to the dozen. It’s survival talk. K can’t put her glasses on over the plastic eye patch. She is sightless without them, we link arms and I voice our path, each kerb and puddle, to keep her safe, dry and upright. On our journey home, in the car, she breaks down. The jovial wall of protection she’s held up since I collected her, has tumbled and fallen. The fragile, anxious soul behind it, is free to let go. I feel her sense of relief at it ‘being over’. She doesn’t have to be brave any more. I realise that I, too, have maybe been holding my breath. We exhale together and I let her cry into the space for a while, we’re quiet together. I understand how she feels, I’m grateful too. There’s a terrible vulnerability about her and I can’t help worrying about leaving her when we finally arrive home. These older years can be forbidding when you see them through alone. We agree to have a chat later, on the phone. With a promise to go and lie down for a nap, she moves haltingly down the gravel path to her back door and I pull away from the kerb.
Back at home I find BB. He had a tooth extracted yesterday and is dosed up on paracetamol and ibuprofen. Another walking wounded. The sun is out now, it’s bitterly cold and the wind howls. A metaphor for life. You bet it is. Four seasons in one day. Got it all going on. God’s waiting room, not quite, just waiting, but in any 24 hours the ups, downs and inbetweens keep me guessing. Till the next time.
A
Ps. Note to self: book trip to Paris and a bonus track…
Lovely reflections Alice! K is very lucky to have such a considerate friend xx
Bless you for holding space and being present. Between the words here I feel a sense of gratitude that oozes from your writing. To know somebody beside us has our back, and at the same time is connected to love is healing all in itself. Thanks for being you. 🙏❤️