Perspective

I’ve been complaining about this bloody cold for ages now.  How it’s stopped my parties and outings (and I don’t necessarily mean in the gay way).  What a nuisance it is.  How very inconvenient.  I am I realise, a navel-gazing prick.

A couple of days ago, a neighbour knocked our door.  Her eyes were red-rimmed.  Her face streaked with tears.  Her husband, Bill, the man who says he’s a builder but I suspect secretly runs a black market trade in canned goods, has had a stroke.  Collapsed at work.  Couldn’t stand up.  No warning.  Nothing. 

He’s only in his forties.  That’s not old.

Shit.

They’ve done some tests.  They think there’s something on the left side of his brain.  They’re going to do more tests.

He’s at home in the meantime.  I saw him tonight.  He looks tired and gaunt and frail all of a sudden.

I playfully scolded him for having a thing for nurses.  But he didn’t smile.  I told him that They’d sort him out.  He nodded but his eyes betrayed him.  He looked at me with barely contained terror.  I have never seen such fear before.  Deep, primeval fear.  He is so scared. 

“It’ll be alright.”  I ran out of words.  I hugged him.

He kissed little S.  It made him weep.

My cold doesn’t seem quite so important any more.

Comments

[Mrs RW]

Don't let your discomfort of not knowing what to say keep you away from your neighbor. My hospice patients told me that one of the things that bothered them the most was being avoided by people who didn't know what to say or talk about.

[Carlton]

That's good advice, as aways, Mrs RW. There's no fear that I'll back away though.

c.