Death, sex and relationships

Hilda died on Thursday. Peacefully.

It is strange being back at work. Apparently lots of people have been asking after me and wondering if I'm OK. Well now I'm back many of them have been to see me and have been very sweet about missing me. One of them, Hilda, had become very ill. She had gone into hospital after a fall and came out to die on Thursday.

Today is Sunday, a day of rest, reflection and renewal. I went to church twice. How about that? The theme of the week is sex. We heard from the newly appointed rector and the keen new curate who insists on wearing a 'T' shirt with 'cure8' on it. The rector seemed particularly troubled by pornography. He confessed to having a personal issue with pornography and seemed to think everybody else did. His sermon was however about self image, and was directed mainly at young members of the congregation, in particular the girls. He warned them, correctly in my view, about the dangers of being lured into believing that their physical attractiveness is a sign of adulthood, success and a goal in itself. It was wise, sensible, and pitched at the right level. It was addressing sex obliquely, implying that if you join the cult of fulfilment through beauty you were, more or less, flaunting sex and your availability for it.

The evening service was altogether more pernicious. The sermon was given by the naive cure8 and based very much on Paul's teaching to the Corinthians. Paul was no doubt a great man. He managed to bring Christianity to the Romans, and so made it a world religion. He spoke passionately about the morality of the times and about the rules of behaviour to be followed by first century Christian communities. I'm sorry, but that's it. Otherwise he is a self-proclaimed apostle who never actually met Jesus and who was clearly, apart from anything else, a misogynist. Surely no one these days agrees with his views on women. Why then should we think that his views on sex are any more correct for our day. Still more, he accepted and instigated the need to modernise social laws and norms and, for example, overturned the food laws and the need for circumcision. Why then should we think that these sorts of laws, which includes sex, should be fixed in time?

So the cure8 believes that sex should remain between a man and a woman within marriage. That sex outside marriage will lead to the abuse of women in sex through pornography, rape, unwanted pregnancy, and sexually transmitted disease. No mention of sexual abuse within marriage then Presumably as a women become the possession of the man, she should be quiet and obey her master, as Paul would have it. No mention of love, trust or respect. No wonder the teenagers of the church marry young then put up with unhappy marriages for the rest of their lives. No room for same sex relationships either in this church, not even a mention.

George and Hilda loved each other very much and it was my privilege to be with them in her last day. As she drifted away I was able to help her to come round sufficiently for her and George to have a final intimate moment. She smiled. Not her characteristic snorting laugh, which I can still hear, but a smile of recognition and love. They were married for over fifty years, but what mattered is that they loved, trusted and respected each other in all that time. The piece of paper was irrelevant.

Six weeks later - the blog resurection

It is about six weeks since I last wrote, so I doubt if anyone is actually reading them anymore. It gives me a sort of freedom to write what I like, except, of course I can't. Time and lots on my mind seem to be the great obstacles to contributing more. When I was travelling around Australia I was able to think about what I was going to write, but now,it seems, I'm just too busy. In Australia I was on a role. Another thing is that I was trying to do a daily blog, now I'm going to try a weekly one.

So what's happened this week?

I am now back to full time work which means seeing patients, taking phone calls, and dealing with requests for visits and prescriptions. Since my vertebral artery dissection and consequent visual field loss, I've found it harder to work quickly, and also get very tired. Getting about is also difficult. I can't drive of course, so I walk. I walk to work most mornings, and if I have to visit I either get a lift or walk. Everyone has been very understanding. But what would happen if we got an urgent visit? It couldn't happen, could it?

On Thursday we met up as a partnership with a mediator. Had it really got that bad? Well the session went well. I think there is an appreciation of each others perspectives, and a good way forward. We are starting to focus on the direction of the practice in the future, and less on trying to get more time off. There is agreement that we want to move the practice into the 21st century. We have already agreed to move to offering an eight to eight service.

Back to the surgery. It's one of the mornings that I've walked in to work. A call has come for an urgent visit. Marvelous. It sounds serious. A young man has been found in the front room, unconscious and in a pool of blood. In fact they think he might be dead. The neighbour, who is a ward clerk at the MRI, and knows about these things, thinks it's too late, so they haven't called the ambulance. 'Anyway, he wouldn't want to go to hospital'. I suppose I better get there quick.

First I quickly check his notes. I've seen him twice. The last time was six months ago. He'd been in with indigestion, I'd sent him for tests because he'd been loosing weight, but he hadn't gone. I had noted a smell of alcohol. I better take my bag to look official, but it really doesn't sound good. The house is not far, but I get a lift.

I approach the house with some trepidation. May be I should have been more proactive in following him up. May be I should have made sure he had the test. What will the family say? Will they been angry, blame me? And my reputation, what will happen to my reputation?

As we pull up to the house a small crowd has come to see what's up. These are second or third generation Irish Catholic Mancunians and they are looking grim. The gathering parts, almost Biblically. His mother meets me in the doorway, and in the hall I ask what's happened.

'He's not been sleeping well. He'd been complaining about his stomach and could only sleep after a few drinks. He often didn't go to bed and fell asleep in front of the tele. I came down this morning and found him like this'. 'I sent him for a test for his stomach, why didn't he go?' I ask meekly with a 'I did try to treat him' subtext. 'I didn't know he was supposed to go for one' she says, 'he wouldn't have gone anyway' The on-lookers are starring at me. Are they blaming me? The atmosphere is tense. I can feel my pulse rate rising and I feel a bit clammy.

In the room he is slumped by the settee. Clearly dead. There's a bottle of whisky by him, an empty one. 'Can you leave me with him for a moment?' I say sheepishly. The door closes behind me and I stare at him. There really isn't anything I can do here. He is dead. I better wait a seemly amount of time and then face the audience.

I'm rather more clammy now. What am I going to say? How will they take it? They must know he's died, they can't be hoping for a miracle from me.

His mother comes in, accompanied by a pensive sister and her boyfriend. Another sister is sobbing. His brother is stern and rather intimidating.

My mouth is dry, my pulse fast, my palms sweaty. 'I'm afraid he's gone. I'm sorry he's passed away...he's died'

'Ah sure, we know Father' says mother in a southern Irish accent 'Tanks very mooch'. I edge towards the door, in a bid to get away unharmed. One sister bursts into tears. Brother puts his arm around her shoulder. The others hang their heads. 'Do you want to ask me any questions'. 'No doctor, you did all you could for him'.

"Well I'll leave you with him' and turn, I feel, rather too quickly. Will they think I'm escaping? Should I say something else? I open my mouth to say something.

'He liked you doctor' says his sister. I open my mouth again but stop. 'He thought you were like Jesus'.

What could I say?

What can you say?

Dear Blog,

I know I haven't addressed you in the second person before and have been rather remiss in communicating at all over the last few days.

Yesterday was Catriona's 60th birthday party. Sixty! I mean really, when did that happen. It was a good party and as usual I felt like a guest of honour. Their usual neighbours were round, who, over the years I've got to know. Being their best man has given me a special status in their house, and I like it. Michael gave me a lift there. He's a good lad. I had a nice talk with Sarah. She has now matured into a very sensible young lady. Laura was up but had to go back to Uni as the term has started nad she needs to get essays in. Chris Lloyd, friend, neighbour and also colleague was rather more encouraging about the vision thing. He says that while the existing fibres have been lost you can get recruitment of other fibres for up to a year after injury. So that's hopeful.

I'm thinking of tomorrow as the start of going back to normal as far a work is concerned. I've been arranging appraisals and getting my timetable sorted. Yesterday I wrote an article on angina treatment for a GP magazine. I'm quite pleased with myself for that.

So, off to bed and prepare for tomorrow

The end of one dream

Too much is changing at once. I'm not sure I can cope.

I've decided not to go for the Tuscany dream after all. Well not yet anyway.

I spent my first night in my new room last night. Seems little different to previous room, still unsettling.

I saw my first patients today. Pretty straight forward really, but still tiring.

I'm feeling exhausted tonight.

Return to routine

Still haven't seen a patient but back to work. This will come soon. I phoned up for an application form for a bus pass and got some photos for it. I'm getting slicker with catching buses. The bus home was at the same time as children were coming home from school. It's pretty intimidating and I was glad they all went upstairs. You wonder if they have learnt etiquette and manners, and respect for others. I think I am a grumpy old man when it comes to this sort of thing.

A return to the humdrum is making me doubt the wisdom of the Tuscany adventure. I'm not sure it's worth investing in something I wont be using fully for another seven years. I don't know. Let's see

Letting off grenades

When IS a good time to let off a grenade? Obviously not when i did!

I got back from last night in time to rush off to my home group's lunch. They are good people, and after today may be all I'm left with. This group consists of people who have been meeting up, religiously, every month or so. They are members of Emmanuel church and held together by the Tamkins, both doctors. Most of the group are medics or similar high flying professions. They generally have fairly fundamentalist views but do entertain more liberal aspects of biblical interpretation, and I think that's what I bring 'to the party'. I enjoy their company and it is always a good humoured event. I got the bus back home and went to bed for a while.

I got up in time for church and took with me a copy of the Quaran. No not to read it out, but to give back to Fee. It was her copy that she'd lent me some time ago. Part of tidying up in order to move on. She arrived after me and went to sit some distance from me. I passed the book back to her and we exchanged nods. The service was much as usual and I left before the end. I was being given a lift.

The lift was to the men's group and this was where the grenade was to be let off.

We have met as a men's group for many years. When people ask me what it does, I tell them it's to explore the meaning of being a man in post-feminist society; to explore manhood, and fatherhood; and to be mutually supportive in time of difficulty. We have been meeting since Jonny was a baby, so about twenty years. There were eight of us to start with but Ian stopped a few years ago. We had long talks about it when he lived with me. He, for one had decided that it wasn't fulfilling any of it's aims, at least for him. I too have been wondering whether I can name how it has influenced me in being a better man, husband or father. I can't. How about support during difficult times? Well yes and no, and maybe. As well as all this Ken is going to be going away in the next few weeks, to be ordained as a Buddhist priest in Thailand, and may never come back. I think it's time for us to consider whether it is any longer viable.

The group started on it's usual 'round robin' of news. Should I bring it up when it's my turn? Well unless I go last some people will have to forgo their news. So I left it until the end. The grenade was thrown. I thought I was asking was us to consider it's viability at the next meeting, so people would have time to think about it. Instead there was an angry outburst, especially from John, supported less violently by the others. Oh dear, that was not the time to drop the grenade, but then when would have been the right time?

Now I'm back from the meeting I'm feeling pretty low and disheartened. Not least because of my room change, which is affecting me more than I thought it would. It's tempting to say sod the lot of them, but I actually quite like some of them. I hope I feel better tomorrow.

Changing rooms

I'm moving rooms today. It is a strange feeling. It is like moving house, but cheaper and quicker. Emotionally though, it is still very odd. Apart from that, everything else is changing too, which is adding to the oddness. I have a new girlfriend; by the end of the week I shall have a new housemate/lodger; the relationship with my partners is changing; I can't look forward to skiing which I normally would at this time of year; my career outside the practice is still a bit up in the air; my ex-wife, mother of children, is doing her usual periodic thing about money; I can't drive. So I'm not sure if I'm sad about the passing of an era, or excited about the future.

The Tuscany adventure has taken a turn in an odd direction. Rachel reminded me that actually I'd always wanted to have a house in France and suddenly I thought that maybe I should be looking at houses in France rather than Tuscany. We're going to Pisa next week anyway, so will look at those properties but then perhaps compare them with the ones on offer in France.

At work there have been heavy discussions about the future of the practice and indeed the partnership. I'm very grateful to them, of course, for letting me take time off to see Australia, but now we are back I want to look forward to the future. I don't want to coast to retirement, as I suspect my partners do. I might as well retire now as do that. I have a vision of six days a week provision of care, form eight-til-eight. It seems to me it's what the public wants, what the government want, what we need to do to maximise the use of our building. So I will need to persuade them that this will mean no more work for them, just a redistribution, and that we shall at last enter the 21st century in service provision. Whilst one partner listens, the other glazes over and looks weary. This is going to be a struggle. Coasting is not an option though and if necessary I will leave them behind.

So back to today and moving out of my room. I've been here over five years. Leaving it makes me reflect on the last five years or so. Relationships mainly. Outside the window there is still lots of snow and ice. I like views from windows. The same buildings and the same trees, changed only by the seasons is reassuring. But, as we say in medicine, 'stasis equals sepsis'. So changing rooms seems somehow appropriate, a metaphor for a new anxious and exciting next phase/chapter/era. Who knows, perhaps the last.