18 February 2010 No Progress Hand + Wire Cube + New Plaster Therapy HR + Boss Last Chance

Don't give up Try to break the new plaster Waiting for Consultant 22 February 2010

 They were  emergencies.  Events moved swiftly. Sudden illness or accident was followed by medical care and surgeries I didn’t really have time to think about.  

A planned procedure happening to a loved one is a rather different experience to the unelected and unexpected surgery on oneself. This time there is no crisis. This time I am not the patient. This time I am on the waiting side.  On this side, the waiting side, clocks are slower. There is no sudden illness or accident or pain or broken limbs or blood or rapid response to speed the hours, just slow silent waiting in anticipation while my husband undergoes a necessary but non-life threatening operation, an operation taking place in a second stretching, minute dragging, and hour anxious millennia.  I don’t like being on this side knowing that all will go right, suppressing thoughts of what could go wrong.  As a patient it never occurred to me that I would not be fine, that things would not work out.  But those dark thoughts occur to me now my husband is the one in theatre and I am waiting for him to return.   

The private hospital we’re in courtesy of the NHS cutting waiting list times is clean and quiet, the care, excellent. However at reception there was a hint of the money first care later culture creeping in. The first thing we were asked was for a credit card for expenses not covered by the NHS.  Would we be billed for the privacy and the peace and the quiet?  Was there a charge for those most welcome cups of tea and biscuits? Were those extras not covered by the NHS? 

The loo in the room did not work. One plumber arrived.  Was this what they meant? Would we be invoiced? Another was called out. Two plumbers! Would there be an additional fee? Grips were brought in! Extra equipment would no doubt command a substantial surcharge. Although the problem was sorted in no time with the new VAT charges, it wouldn’t be cheap.  One way or another they could extract their pound of flesh.  They had my husband under the knife. Worse still, they had our credit card details on file.  

Wire Cube Middle Finger 21-22 degrees Active 25 February 2010

 Dad never charged for the many rescues he made. Friends, neighbours and relations knew he would be there if he could, an unfailing St George tackling countless plumbing problems and slaying d.i.y. dragons.  “Take two aspirin and call me in the morning”, he would say to calm patients before he took on the actual job and put their plumbing worlds to right.  

I was thinking about the hospital stays made when Dad was alive, and then with Mom last summer. Doctors prescribed much more than two aspirin. There was always a bill. Statements for costs ran into six figures. The quality of treatment was not dependent on the charity or generosity of others but on the health insurance my parents held. That little plastic card enabled the family to concentrate on care rather than coverage, something that is not the case for too many working Americans who have too little or no health insurance at all, who might receive treatment they then go bankrupt paying for.  

I look around this room. Medical machines, gadgets and tubes are ready. There is one hospital art picture, a flat screen TV the only other item on the wall.  The thin blanket on the bed means a warm room awaits the patient. Behind a netted window in the outside world lies a soothing courtyard of plants waiting for winter to fade into spring.  

 Last winter the therapist’s plaster set quickly around my finger. It was like the plaster I used in the studio to make moulds. It was there to force my finger to move. Over the weeks there was little response. Unlike my damaged finger, my workshop suffers from a lack of use.  There are no pictures to distract, no flat screen TVs no beautiful views out the window. The down under artist said that she did not force herself to paint , that artistically she had needed to sleep for a while. 

Recovery takes time and other things happen between the last time I wrote and the now.

A voracious bonfire consumes a workshop full of sculptures in sacrificial time. In a flurry of feathers the kestrel stands gripping a tiny bird on the garden wall. Relentless snow falls beautiful, silent and grounding. Sister says the Thanksgiving turkey is too early in the oven to be eaten at the right time. The Detroit Thanksgiving day run is too long in miles if you think they’re kilometers. It is a late rush to the church for the wedding because the directions are in the wrong pocket. The musicians play Old Timey music south of the Mason-Dixon Line. The late plane runs later and later and later and is finally cancelled. We watch the sun set on the year in a perfect blanket of cloud, and shades of gray. Along our New Year night walk from Whitstable an owl and a night bird keep sound company. On the twelfth night nature keeps waking to new light.

The wait is over.

My husband returns and recovers.