# Curtains



## gerdun (Jul 4, 2017)

I recently spent a night in the same ward I had rehabilitated from 23 years ago. It motivated me....


*Curtains*

  My father always told me from as far back as I can remember whenever I did something stupid. ‘Think….’he would spit, ‘Use the brain that God gave you,’ this was followed by a sharp slap to the back of my head.

  I never listened to him and was always doing stupid things. So, it was ironic that the one night I did use this sage advice and took a taxi to go out to a party that it was involved in a freak road traffic accident leaving me with a broken neck and paralysed. 

  Six months afterward and I sat in bed on top of a pile of my own shit, a regular occurrence. I considered whether what had happened to me was just bad luck or fate handing me punishment. The quiet mumbled conversation on the other side of the flimsy curtain which surrounded my hospital bed roused me.  This was the ward round, where each poor bastard in the spinal injuries unit of Stoke Mandeville Hospital was assessed like a laboratory specimen. 

  I felt much like the curtain looked, worn out and green. The pungent aroma of faeces intermingled with antiseptics and a bleached floor making me nauseas. This protective cloak which hid my humiliation, was pulled back exposing my nakedness to the bright fluorescent lighting and a crowd of people: junior doctors, physiotherapists, occupational therapists and others. They surrounded my bed smiling down at me.  

  ‘So good to see you, Mr. Dunnett. How are you this morning?’ boomed my consultant, Mr. Gardener, standing in front, studying my notes.  

  He wore a little bow tie, his signature dress code, which changed colour every time I saw him. I imagined he thought this gave him an open and approachable look, but most of us agreed he was a cold-hearted, insensitive ass. He was checking my name tag, just to be sure that I was indeed, Mr. Dunnett. 

  ‘Well let’s see, today is my birthday and for a present, I have managed to soil myself, not once but twice, a number one and two.  So, I’m having a wonderful day so far, thanks for asking.’ I growled. 

  I could tell this struck a nerve because it was the first time he looked at my face, I noted his dark brown eyes narrowed under heavy rimmed black spectacles reminding me of an owl. 

              ‘So sorry to hear that,’ ‘he sniffed. ‘Yes, lets reduce the amount of aperients and increase his oxybutynin…. That should resolve his…. Incontinence issues. And, oh, happy birthday,’ he patted my foot.

              The group moved away from me onto the next person in the six-bed bay. Leaving me alone to steam about life. My repatriation to England and the National Spinal Injuries Centre in Buckinghamshire had been a blur of activity. The initial optimism of recovery given after an operation to my spine was now becoming a festering memory. I fantasized violent thoughts and cursed out loud, not caring, my heart pounding. Six months of exhaustive rehabilitation routines and I was still paralysed requiring help with everything.

  I studied the view from out my window,[/FONT] [FONT=&Verdana]the thick dark clouds hung low shadowing the slope down to the gymnasium.  It had snowed heavily overnight covering the untampered scene white, it looked like a Christmas postcard. I thought of images of drinking hot chocolate and eating gingerbread cookies with friends.  

  [FONT=&Verdana]I tried hard to remember the last time I had experienced snow.  Vague memories of building snowmen as a six-year-old boy in Scotland came to my mind. This was before my parents took my siblings and I along with all our worldly possessions out to live in Africa where my father started a three-year contract.
[/FONT]
    I heard the sing-song West Indian accent of Marie peddling hot drinks and the distracting views of her curvaceous body which fit[/FONT] [FONT=&Verdana]firmly into the blue candy-striped uniform. I imagined it was a size to small and often a picture of what lay underneath.  

    ‘Mornin Tarzan, ya want another cup oh cauffee?’, her smile was genuine.  
  [FONT=&Verdana]
‘Only if ya help me Mama,’ I mocked. [/FONT]

  She tutted and added a second click on the plastic dispenser. ‘Strong and black, like me…. the way ya like it Gerry,’ she giggled like a teenager, ‘It’s hot, so….  I’ll be back in a while ta give ye a hand with that,’ stretching over me the top her breast brushed my face, her perfume arousing me.  Smiling mischievously, she removed a full but cold cup she had offered me earlier. _With luck, I might get a sip of this one. _

  Looking around my exposed sterile eggshell white home, I noticed each person had a large green felt pin-cushioned board above their bed. Everyone, except mine, was covered with cards of encouragement, family photos and happy mementos making this temporary personal space homelier. It made me feel like the last kid waiting to be selected for the team. I swallowed hard on the thickness that had threatened to engulf me all morning.  

  The squeaking wheels of the ward’s patients telephone came to me before the hefty rear shape of Tracy, my named nurse. She pulled the yellow box up next to my bed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it’s your birthday?’ she chided me, a hand on her sizable hip. ‘It’s a lady for you,’ she winked and put on a headset over my ears and adjusted the microphone in front my mouth, I nodded my thanks and my pulse quickened in anticipation. 

  [FONT=&Verdana]‘Hello?’
[/FONT]
  ‘Hello my baby boy, happy birthday,’ the voice was slurred and tearful.  

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ 

  ‘How are you my love? Are you getting any movement back? What does the doctor say…?’ she asked in flurry. I overheard[/FONT] Brutus the German Shepard [FONT=&Verdana]barking in the garden. 

  I could picture the scene; this was 11. 30, Monday morning in Zambia. The foraging monkeys would be raiding the fruit trees. She would have just woken up, pushing the strands of stiff bleach-blonde hair, clumped together away from her face. Then forced a cold beer past her sticky cracked lips to clear her head. 

  [FONT=&Verdana]‘l’m okay, Mum…. Yeah…. I just saw the doctor he said he thought there was some improvement….’ 
[/FONT]
  ‘I am so sorry I’m not there with you….’, she was crying.  

  ‘Don’t cry Mummy, please….  don’t cry….  I’m fine Mum,’ I tried to placate her by sounding upbeat but the words got stuck in my throat. ‘Howz….’, I managed but by now the tears erupted. 

  I was conscious that all eyes in the ward were desperately looking in any direction but me. Heat rushed through me and I felt lightheaded, my face, neck, and ears burning impossibly hot. 

  [FONT=&Verdana]‘Mum, I have got to go, the physio is here, Bye,’ I shouted, shaking my head to remove the shackled headset. 
[/FONT]
  Tracy, overhearing and seeing my distress rushed to my side drawing the privacy of my curtains around me.  I imagined she had seen this reaction a thousand times over as she wiped the tears from my face and her professional and non-judgmental look gave me solace; no words were necessary as she left me. 

  After a while the details to my snowy surroundings became clearer and the warmth of the ward made the world outside seem all the colder. A lone dark skeletal tree stood separated from its fellows by a fence, on top an orange flapping grocery bag was caught on a branch. I reflected, it reminded me of a dog tied up or on a leash while others roamed free._ That's me._

  The curtain that covered my shame and offered me a moment of respite and a place to hide behind was yanked open again. This time it was a nurse I had never seen before; her face was a serious mask and the grim line of her mouth meant she was ready for the task ahead. I could see from experience that she had come well prepared with a trolley stocked with latex gloves, incontinence sheets, dry wipes, towels and a bowl of water with soap. _But no disinfectant._

  ‘Someone told me you had a wee accident, ‘She chortled at her own joke and started to lower the bed into a flat position without discussion. 

  As my head lowered down past the table with the cup of coffee on it._ Maybe she might give me a hand to drink it._ Then the curtains flew back together hard as if irritated and as I looked upwards to the cracks in the ceiling that I had come to know so well, I decided,_ no…. not today._


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## sas (Jul 4, 2017)

gerund,

You carried me behind those curtains. I was there. 

sas


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## Sebald (Jul 4, 2017)

It's wonderful. There's nothing to add to something as real as that.


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## Plasticweld (Jul 4, 2017)

Very well written, crisp and powerful full of visuals that have tons of impact.  I love the way you wrote about the  smells and the colors, not that I wanted to be there but it let me really get a glimpse of where you are.   This is powerfully told and shows real talent as a writer.  My hat is off to you for your skills, my prayers go out to you for your predicament. Thanks for sharing who you are and giving not only me but the other readers here a view into a world they will probably and hopefully never experience.   Welcome to the forum and to the Non-Fiction side of the WF, I am looking forward to reading more of your work...Bob


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## escorial (Jul 5, 2017)

fab read man...top stuff


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## HarriB (Jul 9, 2017)

Wow. The unwavering perspective you shared made me feel the months (years?) of a _person_ striving to be tolerant and patient during rehab. I appreciate how you used the curtain to represent the patient's lack of dignity because of "professional" detachment. 

Gut-wrenching and to the point. I look forward to reading more of your work!


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## Shemp (Jul 11, 2017)

Yeah, what Plasticweld said.   You're a strong writer, one of my favorites on this site.

One minor suggestion, to add a bit of subtext.   I modified one sentence.......


The pungent aroma of faeces intermingled with antiseptics and a bleached floor making me nauseas. _The worn out curtain had seen better days, but still had value._ This protective cloak which hid my humiliation, was pulled back exposing my nakedness to the bright fluorescent lighting and a crowd of people: junior doctors, physiotherapists, occupational therapists and others. They surrounded my bed smiling down at me. 




I look forward to reading more about your experiences.


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## old.bull.lee (Jul 15, 2017)

This was an enjoyable read, despite the subject matter. That isn't always easy to pull-off. There were a couple of stylistic things that threw me off: seemingly idiosyncratic use of single quotation marks and the like, but that's minor and a matter of preference I suppose. The metaphorical use of the curtain was very well done as was noted above and the description of the doctor as aloof and somewhat flippant was powerful given the setting. 

Very well written piece. 

Is there more coming? I feel as if the story isn't over. You must have a wealth of experience to draw from. I wish you well in your recovery.


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## Darren White (Jul 17, 2017)

This is well written! And I recognise a lot in there too, and especially since i am in a hospital now too, I grin with a frustrated grin that is partially grin only.
It's not only well written, it's also very honest and extremely true.


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## H.Brown (Jul 18, 2017)

A very powerful piece gerdun as has already been said you take into the scene so well and then leave us there after we have finished reading your words. Thank you.


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## Freethesea (Aug 14, 2017)

Sebald said:


> It's wonderful. There's nothing to add to something as real as that.



Agree with the above. Very authentic. Wow. Excellent. I'm pleased to have stumbled onto this post. My heart goes out to your no-nonsense character. I loved how you separated what and who was important right off. The Mom, Marie, Dr. Dunnet. Great introductions and descriptions.


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