☕️🍪
Fliss and W.-B. return and tuck into tea and a cookie together. 'Coo-kie,' W.-B. coos :>)
Well, it's a pleasant change from Complan, I suppose!
Earlier today, I found a number I thought I'd lost, for a friend I made while in hospital. Her name was Annette and she was Irish. 'Instant besties!' :>)
I tend to make quite a lot of friends when I go into hospital. It's an anxious time for a lot of patients and there's some solace in sticking together. Anyway, the next piece here, written in 2015, describes Angie, from February 2011. When she left, she gave me her phone number with lyrics from Nat King Cole's 'Nature Boy', in which she'd changed 'boy' to 'girl', 'for funny old FT' :>)
For an angel
It's true, I travelled very far and over land and sea –
or so it felt, first night in ACU, with throbbing knee,
negotiating island bed, then grey-blue lino floor,
my single crutch in two clenched fists, a feeble sort of oar.
I hoped to find a nurse, as underneath my cotton sock
my ulcer wept large yellow tears, left undressed by the doc,
but all I found were rows of islands, home to sleeping souls,
and nurses somewhere out of range, not out on night patrols.
And so I turned to shuffle back to try my bell, ninth go,
when cries of pain came through the heated air, cries full of woe,
I turned again, and there you were, like me, quite sad of eye,
and so I held the hand you gave to me with ragged sigh.
I asked you if the pain was bad, and you said, 'Now, it's not;
I just need someone to be kind, about the hurt I've got.'
You had an ulcer, 'belly full of fire, burns night and day';
I told you all about my ulcer, 'just won't go away.'
'I'm Angie,' you said, grinning then, 'I'm not an angel, mind!' –
I told you my name, 'Fliss'; you said, 'Thanks, Fliss, for being so kind';
and I responded, 'We're the Ulcer Babes!', then I felt daft,
but luckily you liked that, threw your head back, winced yet laughed.
A nurse appeared and sent me back to island bed, 'It's late.'
We said we'd see each other soon, I left with fragile gait;
I went to bed and slept but heard you crying in the night
and in the morning you'd been moved to Side Room, out of sight.
Three days I spent in ACU, while you remained in Side,
then on to Gastroenterology – first night, Jean died;
they zipped her in a stout black bag and pushed her off the ward,
attempting to console her friend, 'Don't cry; Jean's with the Lord.'
And I felt frightened and alone, but in mid-afternoon
the porters came to fill Jean's space, while whistling random tune,
and it was you, brought out from Side – 'Hi Ange!' 'Hey, is that Fliss?'
'The Ulcer Babes are reunited!', laughter, hug and kiss.
It's true as well, the next two weeks, we spoke of many things,
of men and metabears, of joy and pain, of fools and kings,
and we agreed, of all the joys in life, love is the best,
you in your blue pyjamas, me in shorts and thermal vest.
You left on 14th February, 'medically fit',
though you insisted, 'I can't go, I still feel really shit',
then sighed, 'Alright', and came to hug goodbye, gave me a note,
the lyrics, changed a little, of a song Nat King Cole wrote.
I had your mobile number, but I didn't call for weeks,
at home and feeling wretched, hot tears running down my cheeks;
I told myself, I'll wait till I feel better, then I'll phone,
you weren't there when I rang, I left a message at the tone.
I never heard from you, but found out why November time,
when almost all the leaves had blown from off the garden lime,
the paper said you'd been out shopping, came home, fell asleep,
and never wakened, 'death from heart disease', how I did weep.
Four years have passed, I've kept my note, I read it, sing the song,
feel glad we met, were such close friends, though not at all for long,
and when I feel alone and frightened, then I sense you here –
although you've wandered very far, love seems to keep you near.
💕
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