Immediately after the OM’s accident, my focus was on keeping him entertained so that he didn’t get into more trouble. The day after I brought him home from hospital, we were invited to Jennifer’s office party, held as a result of a change in the partnership. We were there for two or three hours and that was sufficient for one day – a whole lot of new people to describe the accident to. For of course, as with operations and other dramas, once the emergency situation has passed it then becomes an anecdote to be revelled in and much talked about.
Then we had a gap of a day, met people on Saturday, relaxed on Easter Sunday and had an outing on Easter Monday. That regime seemed to be about right – for all his extroversion, the OM needed time in between social occasions. Each day his arm needed to be protected while he showered (in a kitchen bin liner stuck on with tape and cut off later) and then put in a sling for part of the time.
Our Easter Monday outing was with Irene to Clandon House, the first opportunity we’ve had to make use of my birthday gift from the Son&H of a year’s membership of the National Trust. Inside the rather dull exterior of the Palladian house, the rooms were well designed and well proportioned. Courtesy of Irene – a rather lovely photo of the ceiling. We also saw interesting ceramic collections of birds, and monkeys playing musical instruments. There was a guide in every room and M regaled each one of them with the story of his injury and his war wounds.
However, by Tuesday, he was getting restless. The first time I left him – in the evening for a Goldenford meeting - he made his escape, driving a couple of miles up the road and back, partly to prove to himself he could do it and partly, I suspect, as a gesture of defiance. Fortunately, the following day was our booking for dressings at St. George’s Hospital. I now know the route to Tooting – train, tube, bus and 5 minute walk – like the back of my hand, if that’s not an unfortunate phrase in the circumstances. (M may not find the back of his hand quite as he remembered, when the scars have healed.) At this first appointment, the nurse, who dealt specifically with dressings at the Hand Unit at St George’s, stripped off all the old bandages, soaking each one off so that, as far as possible it was pain free. The inner arm, where a piece of skin had been removed for a graft, also had to be protected. No creams were applied – just sterile water – and the nurse carefully selected different types of bandages and mouldable skin-like dressings to suit each wound. Her expertise was impressive. We were in her care for a long time and a number of people were waiting when she’d finished. Now we’ve been referred to our own local practice, where the nurse will do the dressings twice a week. We went for the first time on Monday and our nurse also did a good job.
Last Sunday, we went to visit my cousin near Uckfield, Sussex. M, having escaped once more in the previous week – it was established that there was no problem with his driving. So he drove most of the way, with me taking over on one of the quiet country roads, near the end of the journey. This was a reunion of several cousins – one branch of the family having four generations present; there were a total of 20 people present – quite a substantial number of people to cater for, but the atmosphere was relaxed and we had an informal meal. After lunch, the host cousin suggested a walk, and off went several of the relations, including one cousin, resplendent in a tweed suit. I stayed behind to chat. M borrowed a pair of waders and marched off leading the pack. Caution not being his middle name, when he returned, he was covered in mud from the waist downwards. His socks were so thick with mud, he threw them into the boot of our car. It appears he was not following the directions of the host cousin, and suddenly found himself in a bog. As he sunk down to the level of the waders, he couldn’t use his left hand to lever himself out. My other relations quite expected him to disappear, leaving a few bubbles behind. However, he managed to get out of the waders, which the host cousin with help from another, managed to pull out. The host cousin’s wife put the trousers in the washing machine and dryer, and presented them to him later, he having sat in some old gardening trousers in the interim. All this was reminiscent of the last time we were there, when M poured some tomato juice for another cousin – all over her trousers. The host cousin’s wife had to wash those trousers too. Interestingly, my cousin in the suit, returned from the walk, just as immaculate as when he had departed.
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