He sat in what might once have been called a waiting room, but was now known as a patient lounge. He thought the patient lounge was very much like a waiting room; both in function, in that it was a room in which people were waiting; and in appearance, festooned as it was with information leaflets, posters, uncomfortable-looking mal-upholstered chairs, and a smattering of people he assumed must be patients. They all looked miserable. He had long since realised that hospitals were not necessarily miserable places in themselves, but that the nature of their business meant that innumerable miseries passed through their doors, and that after a certain amount of time the gloominess, suffering, pain and despair were bound to seep into the fabric of the place. There had been too much loss, too much unhappiness, not to weigh the entire site down.
Even the success stories, the recoveries and the miraculous cures that took place here amongst the apparently randomly scattered yet uniformly ugly buildings full of sterile and unfriendly-looking rooms, even they were outwardly-focussed – a celebration enacted by being able to be elsewhere, and by not having to return. In that sense, he reasoned, the hospital could even be described as a place of hope, albeit the hope to be in another place. But there wasn’t much hope in evidence this afternoon: just gloom, some poorly-stocked vending machines (one of which was out of order), and an untidy pile of magazines that looked as though they had never been new.
Like most people, he had never liked hospitals. Even trivial visits for routine and unthreatening procedures were tainted by memories of past, less benign trips, and of course by the prospect of lengthier visits to come. A visit to the hospital, he concluded, was at once an echo of past anguish, and an uncomfortable glimpse into an uncertain yet inevitable future. The hospital was a place of contrast: the environment was sterile, everything was clean, hard, shiny and efficient, yet the people within were fragile, diseased and broken in various ways. The restaurant did offer an excellent rhubarb crumble on Tuesdays, but it was impossible to enjoy it whilst surrounded by pallid geriatrics, worried-looking relatives speaking in hushed tones, and medical professionals looking anxiously at pagers and watches. To make things worse, the custard was usually lumpy.
He left the patient lounge and followed the red line on the floor back to the reception and main entrance area. “I really must stop coming here for no reason” he muttered to himself.
Showing posts with label knee replacement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label knee replacement. Show all posts
Thursday, 8 March 2012
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
161111
Now that I've had the birthday, which sped by despite being awake for twenty hours of it (it was the only birthday I am ever likely to spend in three different countries), I am thirty-five years old. A little less young than before, but as I've already pointed out, none the worse for that.
A confession: I am highly prone to sentimentality. Endings cause me difficulty. It's not that I fear or habitually reject change; in fact I can sometimes embrace it. But I do cling to the past in lots of ways, and one thing that horrifies me about having somehow let thirty-five precious years slip through my fingers in the blink of an eye (fingers and eyes in one sentence - how 'bout that?), is the feeling that of all the great stuff I've done, a large percentage has overflowed my memory bank and been washed away in the murky waters of time.
Like everyone, I am an amalgam of the various influences I've been exposed to over time: phrases I've borrowed, styles I've co-opted, beliefs I've acquired. Some consciously, but, I suspect, the great majority without very much thought. The only original thing about me is the precise recipe in which all the exact measurements of the constituent parts are blended together. So in that respect at least, nothing I ever did or knew is lost. In some imperceptibly small way, everything I have ever experienced is retained and used every day just by being me, by reacting to and interacting with my current life in my own unique way. But this isn't the same as being able to recall details of people and places from years past. I dread endings not because of the upheaval itself, but because they mark the start of a long process of erosion, of sharp and highly specific memories being degraded, dismantled, blurred and eventually either lost completely, or, perhaps even worse, distorted and lumped together into generic and vague representations of those original memories.
There are those who keep diaries. Diaries which record notable events from each day or week. Whilst I accept that it might be a good thing to have volumes of memories on a shelf somewhere, this is something I don't seem to have done up to this point, suggesting that I lack the discipline to maintain such a record. Some bloggers use spaces such as this one to document notable events in their lives, but I've so far shied away from anything quite so uninhibited. Whilst that kind of blog is, in my opinion, quite the best kind, for nothing is so interesting to people as other people, my reason for being here is not to record, but merely to reflect. Besides, even a detailed written record can never recreate a feeling or an experience. It might jog the memory, paint something of a picture, and take the reader to the same psychological avenue as the original event, but the event itself is gone. For that reason I'm not sure I would even bother to re-read old diaries had I ever made the decision to keep them.
To re-plot the course of this blog entry back toward endings, here's an example of my behaviour in response to them: earlier this year I moved offices, from a place which had been my location of work for a little over two years, to a new office. Sadly, I'm not generally able to derive a great deal of pleasure from my work, and most days I'd certainly much rather be doing something else. My office was a scruffy one, in a shabby 70-year-old building that was widely considered ugly even when it was newly-constructed. I had a ripped chair and a desk adorned with antique IT hardware adjacent to a window which had a dusty ledge and from which there was no view save for the identical office not ten yards away. The carpet was worn and stained (not by me, I hasten to add), the overhead strip light occasionally flickered, and the room could be either very hot or very cold, but never anything in between. It was a place for which it was all but impossible to have affection - a place I went to in order to do something I didn't want to do in surroundings I wouldn't have chosen. Yet in the closing days of my time there I collected a few souvenirs, and took some photographs of that same desk, that same office, and the view from that same window. From somewhere I manufactured a sadness of sorts, not motivated by the loss of those things I have described, but by sentimentality, by the ending itself, and by the passing of the time I spent there.
Given my reaction to the end of something I didn't even much like, you might imagine the magnitude of my reaction to the still relatively recent news of the state of my knee, meaning that I am unable any longer to actively participate in the sport I love. I can state without trace of exaggeration that the end of my time as a football player has been the single biggest threat I have ever faced to my psychological wellbeing. Apart from demonstrating that I have led an ultra-sheltered life, I think it also shows just how bad I am at endings, less still premature ones.
I have a third example of my sentimentality with regard to endings. Whilst it goes against my professed reluctance to recount events from my personal life, it is certainly the best example, so clearly merits inclusion here. It's actually something I'm a little embarrassed about, and something I have only ever told one person, so let us also consider it a reward for anyone who has read this far. In the early stages of our relationship, I visited my partner's home town for a week. We stayed at his mother's house, went to some local tourist attractions together, visited places he used to live, went to see his old schools, and viewed a few other places of significance to him. When the week was over, I drove home while he stayed on to spend some time with his family. I sobbed like a baby for ten solid minutes as I drove away. Not out of happiness at having found someone so wonderful with whom to spend my life. Not even out of sadness at being temporarily separated from him. I cried because the week was over, and because the special memories of the most fantastic week of my life would soon start to dissipate. I wanted that week never to end.
I know that my best ever family holiday as a child was in 1991. I know who was there. I know where we went. I am able to access one or two fuzzy pictures in my mind of the places we went, what the weather was like, and how those twelve days made me feel. I can even look at the photos, and reminisce with my family. It pleases me that we were able to share those times together. But I still feel troubled that I can't picture the hotel room in my mind, or remember the expressions on faces, or recall conversations at the end of each day where we reflected on what we had done. The sum total of possibly the best two weeks of my childhood is "that was a great holiday". That feels less than adequate, somehow.
A confession: I am highly prone to sentimentality. Endings cause me difficulty. It's not that I fear or habitually reject change; in fact I can sometimes embrace it. But I do cling to the past in lots of ways, and one thing that horrifies me about having somehow let thirty-five precious years slip through my fingers in the blink of an eye (fingers and eyes in one sentence - how 'bout that?), is the feeling that of all the great stuff I've done, a large percentage has overflowed my memory bank and been washed away in the murky waters of time.
Like everyone, I am an amalgam of the various influences I've been exposed to over time: phrases I've borrowed, styles I've co-opted, beliefs I've acquired. Some consciously, but, I suspect, the great majority without very much thought. The only original thing about me is the precise recipe in which all the exact measurements of the constituent parts are blended together. So in that respect at least, nothing I ever did or knew is lost. In some imperceptibly small way, everything I have ever experienced is retained and used every day just by being me, by reacting to and interacting with my current life in my own unique way. But this isn't the same as being able to recall details of people and places from years past. I dread endings not because of the upheaval itself, but because they mark the start of a long process of erosion, of sharp and highly specific memories being degraded, dismantled, blurred and eventually either lost completely, or, perhaps even worse, distorted and lumped together into generic and vague representations of those original memories.
There are those who keep diaries. Diaries which record notable events from each day or week. Whilst I accept that it might be a good thing to have volumes of memories on a shelf somewhere, this is something I don't seem to have done up to this point, suggesting that I lack the discipline to maintain such a record. Some bloggers use spaces such as this one to document notable events in their lives, but I've so far shied away from anything quite so uninhibited. Whilst that kind of blog is, in my opinion, quite the best kind, for nothing is so interesting to people as other people, my reason for being here is not to record, but merely to reflect. Besides, even a detailed written record can never recreate a feeling or an experience. It might jog the memory, paint something of a picture, and take the reader to the same psychological avenue as the original event, but the event itself is gone. For that reason I'm not sure I would even bother to re-read old diaries had I ever made the decision to keep them.
To re-plot the course of this blog entry back toward endings, here's an example of my behaviour in response to them: earlier this year I moved offices, from a place which had been my location of work for a little over two years, to a new office. Sadly, I'm not generally able to derive a great deal of pleasure from my work, and most days I'd certainly much rather be doing something else. My office was a scruffy one, in a shabby 70-year-old building that was widely considered ugly even when it was newly-constructed. I had a ripped chair and a desk adorned with antique IT hardware adjacent to a window which had a dusty ledge and from which there was no view save for the identical office not ten yards away. The carpet was worn and stained (not by me, I hasten to add), the overhead strip light occasionally flickered, and the room could be either very hot or very cold, but never anything in between. It was a place for which it was all but impossible to have affection - a place I went to in order to do something I didn't want to do in surroundings I wouldn't have chosen. Yet in the closing days of my time there I collected a few souvenirs, and took some photographs of that same desk, that same office, and the view from that same window. From somewhere I manufactured a sadness of sorts, not motivated by the loss of those things I have described, but by sentimentality, by the ending itself, and by the passing of the time I spent there.
Given my reaction to the end of something I didn't even much like, you might imagine the magnitude of my reaction to the still relatively recent news of the state of my knee, meaning that I am unable any longer to actively participate in the sport I love. I can state without trace of exaggeration that the end of my time as a football player has been the single biggest threat I have ever faced to my psychological wellbeing. Apart from demonstrating that I have led an ultra-sheltered life, I think it also shows just how bad I am at endings, less still premature ones.
I have a third example of my sentimentality with regard to endings. Whilst it goes against my professed reluctance to recount events from my personal life, it is certainly the best example, so clearly merits inclusion here. It's actually something I'm a little embarrassed about, and something I have only ever told one person, so let us also consider it a reward for anyone who has read this far. In the early stages of our relationship, I visited my partner's home town for a week. We stayed at his mother's house, went to some local tourist attractions together, visited places he used to live, went to see his old schools, and viewed a few other places of significance to him. When the week was over, I drove home while he stayed on to spend some time with his family. I sobbed like a baby for ten solid minutes as I drove away. Not out of happiness at having found someone so wonderful with whom to spend my life. Not even out of sadness at being temporarily separated from him. I cried because the week was over, and because the special memories of the most fantastic week of my life would soon start to dissipate. I wanted that week never to end.
I know that my best ever family holiday as a child was in 1991. I know who was there. I know where we went. I am able to access one or two fuzzy pictures in my mind of the places we went, what the weather was like, and how those twelve days made me feel. I can even look at the photos, and reminisce with my family. It pleases me that we were able to share those times together. But I still feel troubled that I can't picture the hotel room in my mind, or remember the expressions on faces, or recall conversations at the end of each day where we reflected on what we had done. The sum total of possibly the best two weeks of my childhood is "that was a great holiday". That feels less than adequate, somehow.
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
070910
Dear Football,
Well, we both knew this day would come, though I guess we hoped it wouldn't be as soon as this. Any relationship as strong, passionate, intense and lasting as ours is difficult to put aside, but as you know this decision has been taken out of my hands. We've spent literally thousands of hours together over twenty-five years or so - from at the time seemingly epic lunchtime matches in the playground, to a summer kickabout at the meadows, to bad-tempered indoor five-a-side sessions, to glorious league deciders on windy April mornings and cup finals on pleasant May evenings. In all your various forms, from first to last, I have loved you.
More than anything, I'll remember those countless happy Saturday afternoons. Rushing to the ground, with that pleasant twinge of nervousness in my stomach. Relishing the opportunity to renew old rivalries, start some new ones, and strive with my team mates to overcome all sorts of ridiculous obstacles: horrible weather, appallingly indisciplined opponents, a dreadful pitch, an ageing and sensory-impaired match official (or three). Into the changing room with the rickety benches. Valuables into a communal bag lest they be stolen, and out onto the pitch for a cursory warm-up. Glances to the car park for late arrivals. Eventually they pull in, and miraculously we have time for a brief team talk. The first half is a blur, over almost as soon as it begins. Oranges at half time, another team talk, and back onto the playing surface. Forty-five more minutes of exertion. The whistle blows. Back to the changing rooms. More discussion, which continues in the bar afterwards. No small amount of piss-taking. Couple of drinks. Packet of crisps, maybe a mars bar, occasionally a roll. Time to go. See you next week.
Yet within the routine, there was so much uniqueness. So much beautiful detail. No two matches were ever the same. You never lost that capacity to surprise me. I was constantly captivated by your frenetic unpredictability and your sheer energy. When I was with you nothing else mattered. Nothing else even entered my mind when we were together. It was just you and me. And twenty-one others. It was an addiction of sorts, I suppose, only one without the nasty side-effects.
From the early days as a tricky (if not quite flying) winger, darting past hapless full-backs to supply the front men, occasionally cutting inside to unleash a shot of my own. To the years patrolling the midfield. Tackles, passes, headers, up and down the pitch for ninety minutes. Finally the central defensive period. Battles with enormous or pacy strikers. Frequent facial injuries. Goal line clearances. Raking long passes. Baying instructions to team mates.
And then there were the goals - oh the goals! That Division Three match playing for the reserves when I went past five players before lifting the ball over the advancing keeper. The free-kick from the halfway line. The curling volley into the top corner. The towering headers. The thirty-five yard strike that soared with radio-controlled accuracy into the very top corner of the goal. The left-footed half-volley from similar distance that smashed against the bar, down onto the back of the goalie's hopelessly late-dive, and into the net. Hell, even that bundled effort with my stomach from a yard. Such a feeling of triumph, of elation, of release, and of the purest, sweetest joy.
I also look back on the more unsavoury moments with fondness, and even amusement. When I called that bloke a cock because he charged me in the back and the referee threatened to send me off unless I apologised. The cut nose I sustained from a punch in the face in a 7-3 victory in which I scored two penalties. That time I cut my eye whilst challenging for a header, only to meet with a flurry of punches from the guy I had collided with. The massive right hook to the chin I took whilst running innocently along in one game. Being slapped after kicking someone accidentally in the indoor five-a-side league. Being told in the early stages of an away match in the county cup "You're a long way from home, mate".
Then the downright ridiculous. Drawing 1-1 in a cup game with only seven players with one of my chaotic Sunday teams, then losing the replay a week later, again with seven players, 14-1. Losing my first ever organised match as a ten-year-old, 20-0. Playing in winds so strong that the ball would blow back towards you and over your head after you'd tried to clear it. Getting changed in car parks, barns, fields. Being too shy to use communal showers. Getting cramp whilst driving a thirty-mile return journey after a match.
I cling to my memories of every incident like precious newspaper clippings and photographs of old friends and beloved family members. Right now there is a virtually limitless supply of recollections, anecdotes and mental pictures, but it saddens me that as time goes on I may not be able to preserve them all. It devastates me that there will be no more opportunities for us to create new ones together.
So many places. So many people. Soaring highs, crushing lows. Anguish, regret, happiness, disappointment, determination, disbelief, injustice, camaraderie, laughs, anger, torment, pain, release, joy, always joy. Thousands of shots, thousands of tackles, thousands of headers, thousands of passes, hundreds of goals. Fleeting moments of absolute perfection. About a dozen bookings - all but two or three for sarcastic comments to referees. No sendings off. Not even close. Why would I want to miss one second of one match?
You are perhaps the one true love of my life. Sure, you took a great deal, but you gave me everything. I am more grateful than I could possibly express. Thank you so much. Just between you and me, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to manage without you.
The mitre ultimax-shaped hole in my life may never be filled.
Love always,
Ben.
Well, we both knew this day would come, though I guess we hoped it wouldn't be as soon as this. Any relationship as strong, passionate, intense and lasting as ours is difficult to put aside, but as you know this decision has been taken out of my hands. We've spent literally thousands of hours together over twenty-five years or so - from at the time seemingly epic lunchtime matches in the playground, to a summer kickabout at the meadows, to bad-tempered indoor five-a-side sessions, to glorious league deciders on windy April mornings and cup finals on pleasant May evenings. In all your various forms, from first to last, I have loved you.
More than anything, I'll remember those countless happy Saturday afternoons. Rushing to the ground, with that pleasant twinge of nervousness in my stomach. Relishing the opportunity to renew old rivalries, start some new ones, and strive with my team mates to overcome all sorts of ridiculous obstacles: horrible weather, appallingly indisciplined opponents, a dreadful pitch, an ageing and sensory-impaired match official (or three). Into the changing room with the rickety benches. Valuables into a communal bag lest they be stolen, and out onto the pitch for a cursory warm-up. Glances to the car park for late arrivals. Eventually they pull in, and miraculously we have time for a brief team talk. The first half is a blur, over almost as soon as it begins. Oranges at half time, another team talk, and back onto the playing surface. Forty-five more minutes of exertion. The whistle blows. Back to the changing rooms. More discussion, which continues in the bar afterwards. No small amount of piss-taking. Couple of drinks. Packet of crisps, maybe a mars bar, occasionally a roll. Time to go. See you next week.
Yet within the routine, there was so much uniqueness. So much beautiful detail. No two matches were ever the same. You never lost that capacity to surprise me. I was constantly captivated by your frenetic unpredictability and your sheer energy. When I was with you nothing else mattered. Nothing else even entered my mind when we were together. It was just you and me. And twenty-one others. It was an addiction of sorts, I suppose, only one without the nasty side-effects.
From the early days as a tricky (if not quite flying) winger, darting past hapless full-backs to supply the front men, occasionally cutting inside to unleash a shot of my own. To the years patrolling the midfield. Tackles, passes, headers, up and down the pitch for ninety minutes. Finally the central defensive period. Battles with enormous or pacy strikers. Frequent facial injuries. Goal line clearances. Raking long passes. Baying instructions to team mates.
And then there were the goals - oh the goals! That Division Three match playing for the reserves when I went past five players before lifting the ball over the advancing keeper. The free-kick from the halfway line. The curling volley into the top corner. The towering headers. The thirty-five yard strike that soared with radio-controlled accuracy into the very top corner of the goal. The left-footed half-volley from similar distance that smashed against the bar, down onto the back of the goalie's hopelessly late-dive, and into the net. Hell, even that bundled effort with my stomach from a yard. Such a feeling of triumph, of elation, of release, and of the purest, sweetest joy.
I also look back on the more unsavoury moments with fondness, and even amusement. When I called that bloke a cock because he charged me in the back and the referee threatened to send me off unless I apologised. The cut nose I sustained from a punch in the face in a 7-3 victory in which I scored two penalties. That time I cut my eye whilst challenging for a header, only to meet with a flurry of punches from the guy I had collided with. The massive right hook to the chin I took whilst running innocently along in one game. Being slapped after kicking someone accidentally in the indoor five-a-side league. Being told in the early stages of an away match in the county cup "You're a long way from home, mate".
Then the downright ridiculous. Drawing 1-1 in a cup game with only seven players with one of my chaotic Sunday teams, then losing the replay a week later, again with seven players, 14-1. Losing my first ever organised match as a ten-year-old, 20-0. Playing in winds so strong that the ball would blow back towards you and over your head after you'd tried to clear it. Getting changed in car parks, barns, fields. Being too shy to use communal showers. Getting cramp whilst driving a thirty-mile return journey after a match.
I cling to my memories of every incident like precious newspaper clippings and photographs of old friends and beloved family members. Right now there is a virtually limitless supply of recollections, anecdotes and mental pictures, but it saddens me that as time goes on I may not be able to preserve them all. It devastates me that there will be no more opportunities for us to create new ones together.
So many places. So many people. Soaring highs, crushing lows. Anguish, regret, happiness, disappointment, determination, disbelief, injustice, camaraderie, laughs, anger, torment, pain, release, joy, always joy. Thousands of shots, thousands of tackles, thousands of headers, thousands of passes, hundreds of goals. Fleeting moments of absolute perfection. About a dozen bookings - all but two or three for sarcastic comments to referees. No sendings off. Not even close. Why would I want to miss one second of one match?
You are perhaps the one true love of my life. Sure, you took a great deal, but you gave me everything. I am more grateful than I could possibly express. Thank you so much. Just between you and me, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to manage without you.
The mitre ultimax-shaped hole in my life may never be filled.
Love always,
Ben.
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