The queen had her annus horribilis, Himself had a weekus horribilis. We all did. His kidney stones were giving him jip. When you receive a call from your beloved’s colleague to say he has taken poorly and been rushed into hospital by bluelight taxi, (but don’t panic )... it’s not good. The mind goes into overdrive and we all know the mind’s a powerful thing. Flat to the mat down the M40 to find the hospital. Phone goes on the blink leaving me incommunicado. Then the SatNav gives me the two fingers and decides to pack it in, just to add to the mix. I cannot find the hospital and feel like the Connemara man...which way in here is owit! I don’t know who is collecting the kids. It’s very hard to cry and drive at the same time. The words of my hero Samuel Beckett spring to mind, ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.’ So, no matter, A&E was found.
It can be awkward the first time you meet your other half’s boss, what to say, give the right impression and all of that. But I challenge anyone to advise on the correct etiquette for the following situation. Himself pegged out on A&E gurney clutching puke tray, issued hospital backless gown, stocking feet stickin’ out underneath blue blanket, he as pale as a ghost, speaking fluent incoherent on morphine, stripped of all dignity. He looked like death warmed up. “Nice to meet you,” says his conscientious boss as he hands me a ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of water, “he might need these later.” As with all things medical the where and when of pain was repeated to numerous doctors. Discharged nonchalantly by the first hospital, it was home to bed where things went from bad to worse. High fever and more torture, he was like someone going cold turkey. The doctor was called and off to urology with us, but to the wrong hospital, we discovered there are a few in Oxford. I did have one particular Ally McBeal moment when the confused nurse asked me when he had the kidney transplant, having been sent to the wrong building. In my head I leapt across the counter and attempted strangulation. She proved ever so helpful when I insisted on a wheelchair.
Himself reckons he saw the future on morphine. “So when are the rest of them due,” I ask him. It would appear that Lackagh Concrete doesn’t hold a candle with the amount of stones in his kidneys. The main boulder has been whisked away to CSI Oxford for forensic analysis. I wanted to make cufflinks out of it. I ring the mother-in-law to enquire of family history. “Oh, his father had those, he was in for nearly a week with them,” she says. That’s reassuring. Allegedly, the pain is on a par with labour pain. But what’s this? Men having something over our labour pain. Jaysus, we couldn’t be havin’ that now, ladies! Although, seeing the suffering he went through, I’m inclined to believe it (but we’ll keep that to ourselves ).
The thoughtfulness of bosses and colleagues in his job was unreal. The kindness and support from the teachers, staff, and mums here was amazing and we not a wet week in the place. One lady in particular took the kids, dropped over a bottle of wine and frozen dinner to the house, then cooked me a bite late in the evening when I went to pick them up having been at the hospital. And she, with her own troubles, sat and listened. I owe her a few scoops as we missed Arfur’s birthday last Wednesday. So like Lanigan’s Ball, he stepped out and stepped in again, but thankfully he is out again. But watch this space, they have to get the kango hammer at the remaining gravel so he may be in again.
Anne Joyce McCarthy is chief bottle-washer, wife of one, mother of three (eleven year old boy, eight-year-old twin girls ), student, newbie blogger and occasional jogger. Originally from Corrib Park, Galway, she moved last month from Galway to Oxfordshire with her family.
