November 14th 1996.
Late morning in Walsall. Rain in the wind. Mid-November. Black clouds. A pale sun that goes in, and then out, and then just stays away.
In the out-patients department, there is a log-jam of geriatric bodies trying to shuffle to desks and stations. Some have got to the other side and wait for hospital transport, sipping weak tea, moaning; always moaning, about doctor A,B or C, or their bowel motions or the death of Mr X,Y and Z. There's no young people to be seen, just me in my early thirties. I tell myself amid all the bodily decay that there is nothing wrong with me. I yawn, feel sick and wait for a door to open.
12:05 pm
The door opens and she looks up at me from behind her desk. My consultant's name is 'Sandra.' She is a scrawny, sallow-faced woman on the cusp of fifty. She is shabby and poorly dressed. She does not give off any air of solidity or trust. I am immediately worried by her silence.
She breaks her face and says, 'I am sorry to tell you Mr. Moseley that your MRI scan shows that you have a Brain Tumour.' Everything goes strange. Everything is still but moving. Everyone is silent but talking. Everyone is looking but not seeing. Everything is. Everything is. Everything is...
I stand and question what I've just heard. My ex-wife is crying hard in funeral sobs. 'Sandra's' talking and harping on, and on, in a strange tongues. I look into her eyes and then she starts spitting, her head is spinning around and around, her nails are scratching the wooden table, her feet are stamping one, two, three, four and then she starts laughing. Laughing.
12:20 pm
Back down the corridor walking on air. Sitting in the car. Then back on the road where every black and evil thing crawls out from its dirty hole. The rats are shifting beneath the pavements, the crows split the rubbish bags for new carrion, a hearse stops at the traffic lights, babies in push-chairs are screaming and bawling. I look out of the window, waiting for 'war, famine, pestilence and death' to ride by. I bury my head in my hands and see nothing but black.
1:30 pm
On the bed sobbing, the pillow's soaked. Cotton and lachrymose. Have to remember to collect the kids from school. Have to tell the kids the truth. Need to sleep and find a better place...
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Sunday, 24 October 2010
My Mother; the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Edgbaston, Birmingham B15 2TH
October.
Black clouds. A gale force wind. Crows and magpies on the wing.
Down on the the land below, the ex-wife and I, trudged through the muddy car park. The hems of our jeans caked in mud. Mud like the Somme, a thick unyielding sod. What I would have given for a pair of wings. We went on, and on, up the incline, passed an old guy pushing a woman in a wheel-chair. I said 'do you want a hand?' The reply was curt and quick, 'no, we're okay mate.' I raised an eye brow and thought, 'too proud.'
We arrived at the top of the hill with our lungs near empty. We stood, and then we bowed; the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Edgbaston, Birmingham B15 2TH, where two stone lions guarded the entrance. I pushed hard on old heavy doors. They resisted and refused to open and I took heart from that, as though it were some kind of an omen. I was about to turn heel and run, when a 'white coat' appeared and opened the doors; 'Hello, it's this way sir.'
Immediately, I sensed tension, apprehension and desperation. This was the stuff of acute medicine. This was not a general hospital, this was not broken bones and appendectomy, this was the end of the line; the place where the ghosts hung out and where, the line, between the kill and the cure, was a fine one.
I scrutinized the map and the colour zones, just like London's Underground. Streams of bodies everywhere, bound for the stations of oncology, neurosurgery, chemotherapy, radiotherapy and my destination; imagery.
Black clouds. A gale force wind. Crows and magpies on the wing.
Down on the the land below, the ex-wife and I, trudged through the muddy car park. The hems of our jeans caked in mud. Mud like the Somme, a thick unyielding sod. What I would have given for a pair of wings. We went on, and on, up the incline, passed an old guy pushing a woman in a wheel-chair. I said 'do you want a hand?' The reply was curt and quick, 'no, we're okay mate.' I raised an eye brow and thought, 'too proud.'
We arrived at the top of the hill with our lungs near empty. We stood, and then we bowed; the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Edgbaston, Birmingham B15 2TH, where two stone lions guarded the entrance. I pushed hard on old heavy doors. They resisted and refused to open and I took heart from that, as though it were some kind of an omen. I was about to turn heel and run, when a 'white coat' appeared and opened the doors; 'Hello, it's this way sir.'
Immediately, I sensed tension, apprehension and desperation. This was the stuff of acute medicine. This was not a general hospital, this was not broken bones and appendectomy, this was the end of the line; the place where the ghosts hung out and where, the line, between the kill and the cure, was a fine one.
I scrutinized the map and the colour zones, just like London's Underground. Streams of bodies everywhere, bound for the stations of oncology, neurosurgery, chemotherapy, radiotherapy and my destination; imagery.
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
Searching for Weapons of Mass Destruction
Early September
Testing one, two, three. Testing one, two, three.
I have a bed in the Hospital basement. There are thin bars of sunlight making patterns on the antiseptic floors. Motes of dust hang in the air. Must be a nice day, outside of the Walls. I am isolated, craving the mid-morning swill that they call 'coffee'; even the expectation of drink breaks the monotony. I have been here for hours, that are now turning into days. I have not seen a doctor but I have seen, numerous phlembotomists, who have punctured the surface of my arms, so many times, that my arms are now the colour of bruised fruit. I look down at my tram-lines and I wonder what I am becoming.
I lie back, and I know, that there is a quiet dialogue going on that concerns me. Whispers and sideways glances but no-one is saying much. The blood tests are probably back by now and for some unknown reason, I know they'll be okay: red cells, white cells, vitamins and enzymes. Blood chemistry okay. I had passed the first test, and moved one step nearer to home.
And yet the tests did not abate. 'You need to have an E.E.G.' Naive and very trusting, off I went unaccompanied by to the top of the building, rain running down the windows, grey blankets of cloud, a miserable Tuesday, sitting on plastic chair, absorbing with mild curiosity, the posters about epilepsy and charities.
I entered 'the laboratory.' I am looking around for white rats and Rhesus monkeys, a woman in a White Coat, stands over the sink and whisks up a thick paste, which she then proceeds to smeer all over my head. Strands of my hair were then attached to electrodes, which when interlinked, formed what can only be described as a bathing cap that has been made out of wire. I needed an explanation, and quick. The White Coat mumbles, 'I am going to check the electrical activity in your brain to see if you are an epileptic. Okay?' No. I'm not okay. Can't she see the sweat forming on my brow, the claw marks where I've ripped the stuffing from the arms of the chair and can't she see the irrepressible trembling of my right knee? Course not.
She fires the machine up and I watch the print head shuffle to and fro as it spews out mile upon mile of 132 column paper. My brain is talking to itself in psycho-babble. It scribbles patterns that only a 5 year old could make. The test stops suddenly as the paper runs out. Silence and a raised eyebrow. 'I cannot see anything abnormal in that.' I just look at the White Coat, and tell her to wash my hair.
I am eating little and thinking too much. The food is inedible and my thoughts are getting darker. There are two patients along with me: one is a very tiny old man who screams when the nurses pour him into his bed and a fat old gentleman, on a nebuliser, who keeps me awake all night. I am on the verge of discharging myself when The Houseman arrives and promises me that I can go home after I've had a CAT scan. Excellent, I'm going home.
I sit alone in Imaging, reading a woman's magazine from a year ago. My name's called, they have dropped the formality now and refer to me by christian name. I enter another white room where I am confronted by a structure at which pagans and heathens may well of worshipped at.The giant white ring, towers from floor to ceiling. It stands and commands, like some mighty monolith, but I'm not scared any more, and so I go, willingly, to lie upon its altar.
The next morning I have a lie in and sleep until 3.00am; it's discharge day. 8.00am the Houseman calls with a gaggle of bright eyed and eager students. He stands at the foot of my bed and raises a monochrome slide to the light and says in a cool manner, 'You see that tiny black spot at the back of your brain.' He takes a deep breath and the exhales, 'that's a bleed. I think you may have had a very small stroke. You will need to have an MRI scan to confirm that.'
I passed through the Hospital doors and inhaled the diesel fumes and my ex-wife's perfume. In my pocket, a bottle of aspirin rattled. The White Coats had looked hard, but had found little substantive evidence, of any really big guns.
Testing one, two, three. Testing one, two, three.
I have a bed in the Hospital basement. There are thin bars of sunlight making patterns on the antiseptic floors. Motes of dust hang in the air. Must be a nice day, outside of the Walls. I am isolated, craving the mid-morning swill that they call 'coffee'; even the expectation of drink breaks the monotony. I have been here for hours, that are now turning into days. I have not seen a doctor but I have seen, numerous phlembotomists, who have punctured the surface of my arms, so many times, that my arms are now the colour of bruised fruit. I look down at my tram-lines and I wonder what I am becoming.
I lie back, and I know, that there is a quiet dialogue going on that concerns me. Whispers and sideways glances but no-one is saying much. The blood tests are probably back by now and for some unknown reason, I know they'll be okay: red cells, white cells, vitamins and enzymes. Blood chemistry okay. I had passed the first test, and moved one step nearer to home.
And yet the tests did not abate. 'You need to have an E.E.G.' Naive and very trusting, off I went unaccompanied by to the top of the building, rain running down the windows, grey blankets of cloud, a miserable Tuesday, sitting on plastic chair, absorbing with mild curiosity, the posters about epilepsy and charities.
I entered 'the laboratory.' I am looking around for white rats and Rhesus monkeys, a woman in a White Coat, stands over the sink and whisks up a thick paste, which she then proceeds to smeer all over my head. Strands of my hair were then attached to electrodes, which when interlinked, formed what can only be described as a bathing cap that has been made out of wire. I needed an explanation, and quick. The White Coat mumbles, 'I am going to check the electrical activity in your brain to see if you are an epileptic. Okay?' No. I'm not okay. Can't she see the sweat forming on my brow, the claw marks where I've ripped the stuffing from the arms of the chair and can't she see the irrepressible trembling of my right knee? Course not.
She fires the machine up and I watch the print head shuffle to and fro as it spews out mile upon mile of 132 column paper. My brain is talking to itself in psycho-babble. It scribbles patterns that only a 5 year old could make. The test stops suddenly as the paper runs out. Silence and a raised eyebrow. 'I cannot see anything abnormal in that.' I just look at the White Coat, and tell her to wash my hair.
I am eating little and thinking too much. The food is inedible and my thoughts are getting darker. There are two patients along with me: one is a very tiny old man who screams when the nurses pour him into his bed and a fat old gentleman, on a nebuliser, who keeps me awake all night. I am on the verge of discharging myself when The Houseman arrives and promises me that I can go home after I've had a CAT scan. Excellent, I'm going home.
I sit alone in Imaging, reading a woman's magazine from a year ago. My name's called, they have dropped the formality now and refer to me by christian name. I enter another white room where I am confronted by a structure at which pagans and heathens may well of worshipped at.The giant white ring, towers from floor to ceiling. It stands and commands, like some mighty monolith, but I'm not scared any more, and so I go, willingly, to lie upon its altar.
The next morning I have a lie in and sleep until 3.00am; it's discharge day. 8.00am the Houseman calls with a gaggle of bright eyed and eager students. He stands at the foot of my bed and raises a monochrome slide to the light and says in a cool manner, 'You see that tiny black spot at the back of your brain.' He takes a deep breath and the exhales, 'that's a bleed. I think you may have had a very small stroke. You will need to have an MRI scan to confirm that.'
I passed through the Hospital doors and inhaled the diesel fumes and my ex-wife's perfume. In my pocket, a bottle of aspirin rattled. The White Coats had looked hard, but had found little substantive evidence, of any really big guns.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
A Life Sentence
I was awake and feeling good but those around my bed; ex-wife, mom, dad, ex-brother-in-law and father-in-law, looked ashen and afraid. Indeed, they looked as though they had followed me from the very same hell, that I had emerged from. They stood there; not knowing what to do or what to say. The best policy for them was to leave. I promised them that I'd see them in that afternoon. The ex-wife and I sit and wait.
A young nurse, small and plump, hair stretched back and secured by a hideuos scrunchy, checks my pulse and my oxygen levels. I wait for something profound to fall from her lips and it certainly does - 'da yoe wona' a cuppa tae luv.' I am on earth, I am in 'The Black Country', I am in Walsall, I am in 'The Manor Hospital'; WS2.
The 'cuppa tae', tastes surprisingly good. But I want to know, what marks I've got; I want to go home. Then he eventually turns up, dressed in theatre scrubs, a tired nocturnal creature, he checks my reflexes, he looks into my eyes, questions me about 'drugs' and leaves. And I understand why he leaves, for the whole place is bedlam; the night clubbers have arrived and all I hear is crying, moaning, screaming, threats of violence and a man chatting a strange mantra about blowing up the hospital. I was glad at least, that some people had had a good night out.
Eventually, 'scrunchy haired girl' reappeared and we fill in the forms together. It's quite cosy really as we sit and talk about whether I am prone to urinating on myself, shitting myself, or indeed, self-harming myself etc. But I've got it by now. I sign the form and I am in. Happy days.
I am, by my own signuature, institutionalised and about to be dehumanized. The symbols of the sick - the hospital band, the 'the hospital number' that will track and trace you for ever more, the backless smock, and the pyjamas and the slippers, which, I always keep warm in case of emergencies.
A young nurse, small and plump, hair stretched back and secured by a hideuos scrunchy, checks my pulse and my oxygen levels. I wait for something profound to fall from her lips and it certainly does - 'da yoe wona' a cuppa tae luv.' I am on earth, I am in 'The Black Country', I am in Walsall, I am in 'The Manor Hospital'; WS2.
The 'cuppa tae', tastes surprisingly good. But I want to know, what marks I've got; I want to go home. Then he eventually turns up, dressed in theatre scrubs, a tired nocturnal creature, he checks my reflexes, he looks into my eyes, questions me about 'drugs' and leaves. And I understand why he leaves, for the whole place is bedlam; the night clubbers have arrived and all I hear is crying, moaning, screaming, threats of violence and a man chatting a strange mantra about blowing up the hospital. I was glad at least, that some people had had a good night out.
Eventually, 'scrunchy haired girl' reappeared and we fill in the forms together. It's quite cosy really as we sit and talk about whether I am prone to urinating on myself, shitting myself, or indeed, self-harming myself etc. But I've got it by now. I sign the form and I am in. Happy days.
I am, by my own signuature, institutionalised and about to be dehumanized. The symbols of the sick - the hospital band, the 'the hospital number' that will track and trace you for ever more, the backless smock, and the pyjamas and the slippers, which, I always keep warm in case of emergencies.
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