Don't
be Critical
By
Dominic Horton
When
I tasked myself with writing last week's edition of Lowlife instead
of staring at a blank computer screen, scrambling for what to write
about, for once I had a definite plan and I had even made
notes. Yes, notes and they were not just
brief, illegible drunken scribbes that I had made in the Flagon &
Gorses, no siree, they were relatively comprehensive jottings that I
had written when I was entirely sober. But due to my appalling
handwriting they were still largely illegible. My shoddy
handwriting makes the average doctor's look like carefully crafted
calligraphy. But nonetheless I was well prepared and I thought that
when I sit down to write Lowlife last Monday it
would be a doddle and the theme was jovial and concerning pub life, a
staple subject matter for this column. But life, as is its want, had
other ideas and interjected with an untimely and unwelcome intrusion.
 |
| The imposing Queen Elizabeth II Hospital, Birmingham. |
There
was an air of excitement in my Codger Mansions home last Saturday as
my dear son Kenteke and I awaited our trip to Wembley the following
day to see our beloved Aston Villa play against Liverpool in the
Football Association Challenge Cup (or the FA Cup as it is commonly
known) semi-final. At that stage the only medical matter on my mind
was a serious case of cup fever. I had developed a growing sense of
anticipation regarding the semi-final for weeks and like most events
that you look forward to before I knew it the day was upon us. Such
was my obsessional fear of losing or being robbed of our Wembley
tickets that I had carried them on my person wherever I went and I
even took them with me when I went out running, cocooned in a small
plastic bag for fear of the rain ruining them. So come Saturday I
just had one more day to negotiate without misplacing the tickets and
the travel plans were all in place, my morning alarm was set. All was
settled and I even had a mood of optimism that Villa would defy the
odds and win.
But
then the phone rang. Harry Gout passed on word that our mutual close
friend Tater, or Carl to give him his birth name, had suddenly
collapsed at home and an ambulance had taken him to hospital. These
were the only brief details that Gout possessed at that stage but
they were enough to lead to great concern. In all the years I've
known him I can't remember Carl being ill, let alone have to go to
hospital. So on Sunday the gravitational pull was drawing me to
Russells Hall hospital and not to Wembley stadium but I could hardly
let down the quietly excited ten year old Kenteke, who eagerly
awaited his first trip to the home of football. As you most probably
know Villa defeated Liverpool in a thrillingly open game of football,
so Kenteke and I, and our other Villan associates, were on a
high.
 |
| Tater enjoying a cheeky half with the Big Un. |
Once
we negotiated our way out of the dangerous crowd swell of bodies
outside of Wembley (how can the FA spend £900m on a state of the art
stadium and not have an adequate system for crowd dispersal? – we
found ourselves in a packed throng of people that would have left the
average tinned sardine feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and it was
especially concerning as I had Kenteke with me, but like quicksand
once you were in it there was no way out; it was like a repeat of
football crowd crushes from when I was a kid in the 1970's and 80's
that I thought that we had left behind post-Hillsborough) I had a
telephone conversation with Toby In-Tents to discover more about
Carl's condition but the line was awful and In-Tent's sounded like
Norman Collier (doing his faulty microphone skit that is, not the
funky chicken or car window routine), so the information was sketchy.
I
went to the hospital first thing on Monday and even though I knew
Carl was very ill, as he is in critical care, I didn't quite realise
the gravity of his situation until I saw him, lying there heavily
sedated and not conscious, wires everywhere, ventilated. But to all
intents and purposes he looked normal, well, like he was simply
sleeping. It was like he would come round at any moment and say,
“Alright Dom, how am ya? Where on Earth am I and what am I doing
here? Get me clothes, we're off.” When I first heard of Carl's
illness I naively thought that he would be restored to
health as quickly as he fell ill, a couple of nights in the hospital
maybe to treat whatever ailment it is and off you pop for a couple of
restorative refreshments in the Flagon & Gorses. But as the early
part of last week wore on it was clear that this would not be the
case, there was not going to be a quick fix, especially as Carl's
condition appears to be very rare and the doctors are struggling to
form a clear diagnosis.
When
I walked into critical care on Thursday and approached Carl's bed the
nurse in attendance inquired of me, “are you the doctor?” Of
course one's first instinct is to play along with such a comment and
thoughts of having unfettered access to stockpiles of
free medicinal brandy and delectable morphine flashed
through my mind. But is was neither the time or the place so I had to
come clean and disappoint the nurse. We are constantly informed in
the newspapers that the NHS's resources are stretched to breaking
point but it will be a worrying day if they have to draft me in as a
cut-price doctor; my advice of “all he needs is a couple of pints
and a packet of the cure-all-ills Mini Cheddars” will wear a bit
thin after a while and besides the Pirate at the Flagon & Gorses
doesn't pour his beer on prescription.
 |
| Kenteke at Wembley stadium. |
It
always amazes me how the people who are closest to a seriously ill
patient show such strength and humanity in such heart wrenching
circumstances and Carl's wife, Sarah, and his family are no
exception. Having to play a waiting game in ordinary life is not
generally an enjoyable past-time but when you are waiting for a bus
or to see the dentist at least the time frame is finite, there is a
clear end game. But waiting hours on end in a cheerless family room
in critical care is a soul sapping experience for Carl's family,
hoping for any slight sign of improvement, longing for news from the
doctors. The décor or the room itself is enough to make the most
upbeat person feel gloomy.
On
Friday Carl was moved from Russells Hall to the Queen Elizabeth II hospital in Birmingham, which is known to be the best neurological
centre of excellence in the whole of England, so comfortingly he will
receive the very best of care there. The QE is a Soviet
superstructure of a building and it makes Russells Hall hospital in
Dudley – which is sizeable hospital as well – look like a village
surgery. The whole sprawling hospital site is about the size of a
provincial town centre and when I approached it I gave myself odds of
6-1 of actually finding the ward that Carl is on. I should have had
50p each way on myself as to my surprise and delight I found the ward
first time of asking, with a little help from hospital staff but that
is hardly cheating. The entrance hall to the building has more of the
feel of an airport departures lounge than a hospital,
with shops and cafes and a high, spacious ceiling – how the
staff, patients and visitors filing in and out of the building wish
they were going on holiday instead of being involved in medical
matters.
 |
| An illustration from The Iron Man, by Ted Hughes. |
When
I was at Carl's bedside on Saturday the nurse encouraged me to talk
to him but after a few words I had run out of things to say and I am
generally not the most talkative of persons at the best of times. The
nurse explained that although Carl is in an induced coma he might be
able to hear voices and listening to ones he recognises might comfort
him. I asked the nurse if it would be a good idea if I read to Carl
and she agreed that it would be. So on Sunday I took a book with me
and not wanting to burden Carl with anything too heavy I chose The
Iron Man by Ted Hughes, a favourite of mine. I could have
been devilish and read to him a Mills & Boon, or even Mein
Kampf, but I behaved myself and refrained. Although I read
aloud to others every week it was an odd experience reading in the
to-ings and fro-ings of a critical care ward but once I got
into the swing of things it was fine. And at least I felt like I
was doing something positive to help.
They
say a week is a long time in politics and applying that rule I hope
by the time I come to write my next dispatch of Lowlife that
the news regarding my valued friend will be bright for the sake of
Carl, his family and all who hold him dear.
©
Dominic Horton, April 2015.
Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email: lordhofr@gmail.com
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