2nd September 2009

There are a few unmistakable signs in our household that something significant is about to happen: the house is suddenly spotless from attic to skirting board, the fridge and larder groan under the weight of provisions, the laundry basket is suspiciously empty, and every drawer is bursting with ironed clothes. When, on top of all that, a carry-all of nightwear appears in the bedroom… it can only mean one of three things:

1. We’re about to welcome a new family member,

2. Visitors are staying for the week, or

3. Sue is going into hospital.

Sadly, it was the latter.

On Monday morning, I drove Sue to the hospital at 11 am, although we spent much of the morning waiting to find out if they even had a bed for her. After confirming visiting hours (which had been slashed due to the Swine Flu outbreak), I left her on the ward and returned home. Only one visitor per day was allowed between 6–7 pm, precisely the hour of grumpy stomachs and rush-hour traffic.

When I returned that evening, Sue had only just come round from her operation, having gone under the knife at 4 pm after a day full of emergency miscarriages in theatre. She looked… well, “ghastly” feels generous. A cadaver might have looked more robust. She was parched, having not had a drink since 7 am, and she knocked back four glasses of juice in quick succession.

She found it amusing that she couldn’t feel her legs and was convinced they were up in the air (they weren’t). The anaesthetic was still doing its thing, though as my hour came to an end, her toes began to tingle and her knees began twitching. Progress. Before I left, we requested painkillers, just in case feeling returned with a vengeance.

Jamie came with me to visit the next evening and, reassuringly, Sue looked much better, less ghostly, more human. She’d slept well and was already the social secretary of the ward. With three other beds regularly refilled by pre-op or post-op patients, she had a full rotation of characters to chat with. She declared the food surprisingly good and the nurses excellent, which almost made me feel redundant.

However, the following night, she was looking a little worse for wear. She’d been up for the first time, and it had taken its toll. Still unsure of her discharge date, she seemed content to remain under NHS surveillance, particularly as Sarah was away with the RAF, learning to glide and also enjoying a flight in a helicopter. With Jamie and me to cope with at home, no wonder Sue opted to stay put.

Saturday arrived with Sue waking up to a headache. The doctors hesitated, but eventually gave her the green light to leave. I received the call at 6 pm and fetched her, with Jamie in tow. Sarah was back from her aerial adventures but utterly shattered, so I let her sleep.

Back home, Sue spent two days either in bed or in the chair beside it. She hated the inactivity, but between my nagging to take it easy and regular visits from friends, neighbours, and family, we managed to keep her mostly still. Jamie and Sarah were less than thrilled with Dad being in charge, especially as I came over all military:

• Take your trays to the kitchen.

• Tidy your bedroom.

• Wash the pots.

• Fill the washing machine.

• Hang the clothes on the line.

• Turn the lights off.

• Turn the TV off.

• And no, you can’t have a takeaway; I cooked it, you eat it.

But discipline paid off: they neither looked scruffy nor starved and, by some miracle, even started helping out without being asked. Wonders never cease.

On the third day, I let Sue downstairs, though I kept a close watch as she mooched about, likely checking to see if the place had become a squat in her absence.

Next-door neighbour Doreen popped round for a visit. As an ex-nurse, she and Sue had a long natter about all things medical. Earlier in the week, Doreen had brought over soup and a casserole, which I kindly handed over to the kids (there wasn’t enough to go around). They declared it delicious, possibly the first time they’ve ever praised anyone’s cooking that wasn’t delivered in a paper bag.

Sue’s first real outing was to the supermarket, where we restocked all the supplies I’d used during her convalescence. She seemed determined to re-establish control of the fridge.

Sarah, fresh back from RAF camp, promptly caught a nasty cold and retreated to bed. Some of her group had come down with confirmed Swine Flu, eight were seriously unwell, but thankfully Sarah was up and about by Tuesday, just in time to register for sixth form.

She chose Geography, Psychology, Sociology and Biology for her A-Levels. She did well in her GCSEs: mainly As and Bs, a solitary C, and, rather oddly, a D in PE. I still can’t fathom that one; she’s brilliant at sports. I was especially pleased with her A in Science (a little bit of parental tutoring goes a long way).

Meanwhile, Charlotte and family are sunning themselves in the Dominican Republic. They’re celebrating both their birthdays as well as their wedding anniversary. From their texts, they’re having a marvellous time. Lucas is beside himself with excitement. The last message reported rain and a temperature of 19°C. Tropical, but soggy.

Over in Bulgaria, David reported a fiery turn of events. After a day out with Genya, they returned to their little settlement (Ritya) to discover a group of orienteers meandering through. Once the head-torches and maps had disappeared, they noticed one of the derelict houses was on fire.

David, Genya, and their only other neighbour, Mark, sprang into action and put it out themselves. Fire service? Who needs one when you’ve got a bucket and some community spirit?

More benignly, they’ve been having weasel trouble. David managed to trap and relocate one from the roof. Later, he spotted a mother and baby weasel roaming about, seemingly looking for their missing patriarch. Oops.

So there you have it, a fortnight full of hospitals, unexpected fires, family feuds (mild), flu fears, firm fatherly discipline, and a rogue weasel romance. Life, as ever, finds a way to stay entertaining.