kagablog

77

I have been transferred to C2, the orthopaedic ward. Instead of two large general wards, male and female, there are several small rooms with from one to four beds in each.

I must adjust to the slower pace and routine that is different in some of its details. To make the time pass I must try to keep busy. Each task can be done more slowly and thoroughly and more time can be spent talking to the patients. Once it is seen that I work efficiently and reliably I shall be able to lengthen the lunch hour and take extended tea breaks.

78

An angry orderly, tall, thin and wiry - a Woodstock White with thick black hair and a dago moustache:
‘My mate, come and help me before I choke that fuckin’ lot in there. God help me if I don’t fuckin’ choke that bitch. She’s supposed to be a nurse. Can’t she help a man? Christ. I’ve got no time for the woman. As true’s God I’ll choke her.’

79

A hot clear day, a beautiful morning to be outside. The sea must be calm and exuding freshness. Singer is playing a tape of lifting Soul. He lies there puffing on a cigar and blue wisps of aroma drift with the music through the ward. There is an atmosphere of sleepy quiet.

80

Randall is emaciated with a terribly distorted rib cage. He has a single yellow fang and a productive cough.

‘Is it difficult being old?’
He does not hear. A gloomy prospect, this old age business.

81

Davis is full of complaints and dithering nonsense but he has a dry sense of humour. Three bottles of milk stand on the window sill maturing in the sun. This is his ‘curds and whey.’ In his locker he has a bottle of whisky and he would tipple through day and night if not discouraged.

‘And they try to tell you about religion and that we were put here by God. How ridiculous!’

82

Old Mr Davis is eighty-two. Until he was seventy-six he swam the year round in the cold Atlantic off Sea Point and walked the mountains from Signal Hill to Cape Point. Then, whilst painting his house, he fell from a ladder and broke a leg. The fracture healed but he developed a respiratory complaint which he calls ‘emphysema.’ Now he has broken a hip.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever Gods may be
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.

83

The appreciation of poetry, vigorous exercise in the outdoors, a staple diet of sour milk, moderate but regular intake of malt whisky and a vehement refusal to do anything blindfolded or against one’s better judgement: these are the keys to longevity.

84

He is half-cut on his whisky and fiercely serene, lying there reciting from memory verse upon verse, eyes glinting with an obdurate light, voice shaking with emotion.

‘Why are these damned Christians so afraid of death? Why can’t they see that Swinburne was right? ‘Only the sleep eternal in an eternal night.’ What is there to fear in that?

85

Singer has had the plate removed and will be going out soon. After the anaesthetic he wept openly and painfully, causing some embarrassment to the other patients. His dark suffering eyes are red and swollen and he snivels helplessly and hopelessly like a child who does not know why he is crying.

I see Martin Singer as a refined and complex character. Each surface detail is an indication of depth and turbulence. Each clue, if followed, leads into rich confusion. He is reading modern women writers, in search of the female psyche, the essence of Woman. He is divorced. He is in group therapy. He holds a Master’s degree in sociology. He reads Eastern religion. He has a new girlfriend.

86

Lifting an elderly woman from her bed into a chair I sensed her pleasure at feeling a man’s arms holding her. She took comfort and strength from it.

87

I cast about for Death. Like a torchlit snail on a branch laden with pre-dawn dew. Before the advancing convulsion, extension and rotation; sweeping with that extraterrestrial helmet, antennae twitching and quivering. I sniff the air, peer into shadows, strain my ears, scan for rays and vibes. Maybe in the eyes of the other patients something lurks.

88

I blanch and quake with fear when I read such a description of ’schizoid existential manifestations,’ the forerunners to ‘the onset of psychosis.’

The self, in order to develop and sustain its identity and autonomy, and in order to be safe from the persistent threat and danger from the world, has cut itself off from direct relatedness with others, and has endeavoured to become its own object: to become, in fact, related directly only to itself. Its cardinal functions become fantasy and observation.

89

I am relieving in F2, Neurological.

He was attacked by ’six kaffirs’ in the riots whilst working for Bantu Affairs in Gugulettu. They shot him ‘through the heart.’ Miraculously he didn’t die but he suffered brain damage after an interruption of blood supply, and his motor control was badly impaired. Now he is a jerking, slobbering, gibbering invalid who walks with such painfully violent difficulty that he is confined to bed except for visits to the toilet

‘One shot.’.

90

There are only four male patients, so there is even less to do than in C2. With boredom comes depression. The future looks bleak and chaotic. I find myself nervous and frightened.

91

Now this particular patient is twenty-five. His attractive, bouncy young wife has come to take him for a drive and I must get him down in a wheelchair. She is apparently very cheerful and bears it with surprising fortitude. They have a child.

92

To be able, dispassionately and with clear eyes, to draw a line below which the quality of life must not be permitted to deteriorate.

93

Once again excruciating boredom lays hold of me. Frustration seethes and I feel desperate for some way of escape. I have fought this sense of featureless futility. Somewhere at an indefinite time I strayed into dark realms which the subsequent years have done nothing to illuminate and make safe.

94

Outside Accident Unit was a strange and wondrous sight. A man was helped from an ambulance and escorted inside. From his skull a yellow-handled screwdriver protruded at an angle.

95

Old Mr Davis will need great reserves of strength to survive this battering.

Bored nursing assistants torment him. ‘For God’s sake, go away! I want to be left alone!’

To his consternation he has been moved several times from one ward to another. A change of Sisters, a change in arrangements.

First he is allowed unlimited Scotch. Then it is withheld entirely.

He asks his surgeon if he might go back to his flat in Muizenberg to convalesce. This callous fool tells him, ‘No, they don’t want you back there, Mr Davis. You must go to Eton Convalescent Home. They don’t want you.’

96

It is not cold but outside it is raining steadily. There are six male patients and I have little to do but think: of disappointment and travail. I become more aware of the transient and frivolous and yearn for depth and quality.

97

I am powerless, savouring pain and beauty, hoping to bear them with some kind of resignation.

98

Orderly, did I ever tell you? The cucumber, once it has been peeled, becomes the most indigestible food in the world. So they peel it.

Are you enjoying it, Mr Davis?
I don’t seem to be able to digest it. Oh God.

99

Davis: God, can’t they give me a shot of pentathol or whatever it is? The Barnards said they would both prefer to be put out of their misery if they found they were suffering from an incurable disease. There’s nothing worse than this damned emphysema. God, I can’t take this any more. I’d rather be dead.

100

Nurse: Come on, Mr Davis. It’s time for your nine o’clock smile. You’ve got to smile once every hour.
He coldly ignores her.

Thank you, Orderly. You’re very good.
Yes, the orderly’s a very nice chap. He’s very good with old ladies too.