I hate hospitals.

They are noisy, bright and while they might be conducive to physical health they don’t do much for the mental side.

The staff are wonderful. The only real problem was in understanding them as my Hindi and Bengali are not my two top languages. Apart from that I couldn’t find fault. My favourite nurse was African and can only describe her as Big Momma. Momma would breeze into the room like a tsunami [she really was big] and would greet us all with “Gooood morning folks. Momma is here now to take care of you. I am your Momma from Da Jungal”. I think her name was Leshah or something but everyone called her Momma [apart from the other inmates of Block D].

I asked Momma one day how she managed to keep so cheerful in face of the misery displayed by my cell mates. I asked if I could have some of whatever she was on. Did she have some weed or something that she smoked? She looked blank. then suddenly announced that I meant Ganja. “It’s called da Ganja in Africa but sorry I don’t have none”. At least I tried.

The problem wasn’t the staff. It was the fucking patients. I seem to have been deposited in the geriatric wing and was to all intents and purposes a mere child by comparison. We all had little emergency buttons if we required something important like a bed-pan. Unfortunately the mob in the wing failed to understand this simple little device and either ignored it entirely or else kept their finger permanently on the button. Whichever option they chose in the use of the button was complimented by loud shouts that they wanted assistance. So we had constant and unremitting calls for “NURSE! I WAT YA” or “CAN SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME” with multiple variations on the theme. There was no pause for a possible response and the demand would be yelled again. And again. And again. Invariably one would set off another couple so the insistent demands for attention just became a background kind of jungle noise. They temptation to yell “WOULD YIZ EVER SHUT THE FUCK UP.!” was always there but I never indulged, sadly.

The food was okay. I have had worse. The main problem was that we had food shoved at us at regular intervals when I really wasn’t hungry. I did like the jelly and ice-cream though. I miss that.

The one thing that confused some and amused others was that Herself was in the same ward but a different cell block. So I used to wander down and sit with her at various times, The usual reaction from doctors was “Do you two know each other?” to which I would reply “Not very well” and Herself would volunteer that we were almost at our Golden Anniversary. It still confused them that the two of us should be in the same ward but for different reasons. I suppose it was unusual?.

I love the peace and quiet of home. The silence here is almost deafening. Sheer joy.

I miss the jelly and ice-cream though.