Smiling in Slow Motion

SEPTEMBER

SEPTEMBER Friday 3 I've been at Bart's for nearly two weeks. My kidneys and bone marrow are monitored under the deluge of Gancyclovir and Foscarnet. I have an injection each day to bolster my neutrophils, the infection has not cleared up yet but is on the way. Two weeks ago I had an eye operation, very sore and painful, and I have another on Thursday. I am almost blind and have certainly read my last book and newspaper. In the day room a doctor is badgering an elderlyman: 'If you don't do this you will be dead in a week.' He doesn't answer, the doctor gets impatient and then gives up, realising he isn't going to get an answer. It seems a bit blunt. The young man across the corridor died on Wednesday. He hadn't moved or spoken for weeks, thin and emaciated like the mummy of a pharaoh or a corpse from a Danish peat bog. I think the doctors stopped his drip. The nurse said he just refused to die, it was almost unnatural. As HB and I crossed Soho Square, empty in the autumn drizzle, I felt how great it is that I'm still alive; if I say it myself it's a bit of a triumph. The doctors didn't think I would survive the last pneumonia, thought that septicaemia would carry me off. It never once occurred to me that I would not leave Bart's. I couldn't care less about dying, though I hope it isn't too gruesome. I can give thanks I am not going to end up like the geriatrics on Colston Ward. Old age here is so deprived, the sense of alienation and insecurity quite terrible. I feel all my days are quite extraordinary and exceptional. I've allies and well-wisherseverywhere. Crossing the road, a van deliberately ran into us. HB kicked it really viciously, dented the door and had a brief shouting match with an unpleasant man who was driving it. 'Just because we're in the road isn't an excuse to kill us.' 374 SEPTEMBER I'm quite incapable of eating the hospital food so I've given up ordering it. I think it's the Foscarnet which has destroyed my appetite. During this last illness I have been kept alive by Poon's, the small Chinese restaurant in Lisle Street. The staff there smile and welcome me, ask after HB. It's inexpensive and very good, I would have thought almost the best value of any of the restaurants, and there are many within easy distance of Phoenix House. Tuesday 7 At Wheeler's with Norman, Nico, Richard and Ken for lunch, I managed a soup and potted shrimps. The ataxia is worse -1fell over, narrowly missing a bad collision with the wall. Thursday 9 My second eye operation was less painful than the first and it's a success, though I have hardly any usable sight, just a blur. The Western Opthalmic couldn't be more different from Bart's, tough nurses who boss you about they wouldn't let HB ring Andrewes Ward himself because they couldn't believe he knew the direct phone number. Geriatrics are, I'm afraid, a real pain. Wednesday 22 The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence took a room above a pub and celebrated my second sainting anniversary with hymns and hopes. It was a great evening, everyone enjoyed themselves. Alan was marvellous. He's good at rallying the troops and has a headdress which gives him a certain orthodox look. Some of the sisters had blue veils. There was a lot of love in the room and it does put one in a good mood to have all this much too kind attention. Peter Whitehead was the new saint, they've chosen well. The last weeks have been overwhelming: with letters, people stopping me in the streets and singing nuns, I have received more than my fair share of love. 375 ...