Expendable Losses

Nurse Talbot swiped her ID card through the access reader, opening the doors to the surgical centre. She greeted Ward Fifteen’s weary night staff, finishing their shift and trundled her meds trolley down the taupe-painted corridor to Thomas Travers’ recovery room. Biting her lip, she raised a clenched fist and rapped a jaunty rata-tat-tat with her knuckles. 

   “Come!” Tom grunted in response. “Don’t be shy, nurse.”

   “How are we today, Tom?” she said, unlocking the trolley’s metal door as he fumbled for his spectacle case.

   “I won’t be running the Glasgow marathon,” he said, resting the glasses on his nose. 

   “That’s no loss.” She smiled at him. “They said there’d be rain this year.”

   “Humph! It’s too early to tell.” Tom shuffled upright as she located his medication. “There’s plenty of time to borrow a prosthetic.”

   “You’re in good hands now,” she said, opening his blister pack.

   “We’ll see,” he said, pouring a glass of water. “I bloody well hope so.”

   “I’ve brought your morning cuppa, Tom.”

   “I hope it’s on the house, nurse?”

   “And some hot buttered toast.”

   “You’re not expecting a tip?”  

   “Relax and enjoy,” said Nurse Talbot, turning to leave.

   “I’m not planning to go anywhere, nurse.”

   Nurse talbot shook her head as she left.

   Thomas was impossible to deal with.

   But much friendlier than usual.

   Amputation is always hard.

   He’d finally accepted it. 

* * *

Tom had been cantankerous for as long as his friends, associates and close family members could remember. He’d survived a strict childhood in the East End of Glasgow and often heard Walter, his father, say ‘Life’s not for losers.’  

   Old man Travers encouraged Tom and his older brother, Jonny, to argue a point and they often came to blows to prove who was right. Jeannie, their mother, encouraged their rough-and-tumble, and laughed out loud as they battered and bruised each other. She believed in “toughening ‘em up for the real world,” and no mistake, life in Easterhouse was tough. The family owned an impressive detached property that doubled up as a surgery. Under different circumstances, they might have experienced local hostility, however, there was never any intimidation, and the brothers could handle themselves if push came to shove. Walter was a hardworking doctor and looked after the neighbourhood’s healthcare needs, accepting bottles of whisky in lieu of payment, which was much appreciated by all concerned.

   Walter was a disciplinarian whose family prided themselves on academic excellence and he’d high expectations for his lads. Medicine or accountancy were the only options available or ‘out on their own’. Tom never claimed to be competitive, but then nobody ever challenged him, especially after a couple of drinks. ‘Get behind me or get out of my way’, was the code he lived by. This motto was inspired by his cynical father, who told Tom, ‘Never trust anyone, especially if they’re courteous towards you.’ In many ways, Tom was naïve compared to Jonny and less willing to question Walter’s proclamations. He absorbed his father’s cautionary words and allowed them to dictate his personal relations for years to come. ‘Believe me,’ he’d said to the lads. ‘If anyone’s nice to you, it’s because they want your money.’ Accountancy was a natural choice for Tom and he was very good with money. He was the best, but then his father expected no less.

* * *

Tom’s right foot wasn’t the first limb he’d lost because of type 2 diabetes; he’d lost three toes and a little finger prior to this operation. Somehow, those appendages were minor losses he could ignore and work around. It’s amazing how one can get used to not using a particular finger or toe in the event of an unfortunate accident or breakage. Tom viewed those losses as inconvenient or acceptable in some way. A ‘trade-off’ for not changing his lifestyle, and ‘getting away with it’, if that makes sense.

   He’d struggled for years with his weight, which was mainly an alcohol related issue. Faye, his long-suffering wife, often encouraged him to take action, and even joined him on various trendy diets for moral support. However, not being much of a drinker herself, all the calorie counting helped her maintain a respectable weight and a youthful figure. Tom, on the other hand, was a devil for the bottle and would follow a regime with care, but then award himself a tipple to compensate for all the sticks of celery and portions of nut loaf. The treats were the problem. If he were serious about his health, he needed to cut out the booze, ‘but where’s the fun in that?’

   It started with tingling in his toes. He’d had years of recording blood sugars, but it wasn’t until the tingling that his doctor spoke to Tom in no uncertain terms. ‘You’re on the way to acquiring gangrenous extremities, old chap.’

   ‘Codswallop!’ Tom said. ‘You’re talking gobbledygook, man.’

   “Utter nonsense!” he said, reporting the conversation to Faye. “The man’s an idiot.”

   “I hope you didn’t give him a piece of your mind, dear.”

   “Of course, I told him,” Tom said, his face flushing. “He’s seen the last of my money.”

   Faye tried her best to persuade Tom, however apart from a few paltry attempts at a diet, he failed to grasp the imminent problem. The tingling feeling developed into a prickling sensation and by the time he returned to the doctor’s surgery, he had loss of feeling in his extremities, general tiredness and blurred vision. 

* * *

Tom always imagined he’d go before Faye; she’d enjoyed such good health throughout their marriage. It was a surprise when he got the call from the police confirming the incident. The request to identify her body in the morgue was worse than visiting the crash site and seeing her lying on the road. In Tom’s mind, she was asleep and at peace. He couldn’t quite imagine living without her. It took a couple of weeks to get used to his solitary existence. She’d taken responsibility for so much of the housekeeping that all of a sudden, he was swamped in dust and dirty dishes, unwashed sheets and baskets full of socks. His life was a mess without Faye to remind him to put out the bins and check the cupboards for provisions. He needed a housekeeper.

* * 

It was Daphne who whipped the house into shape and took charge of recording Tom’s blood sugars. He’d complained to her about stabbing pains in his foot, but refused to show her, partly out of modesty, or maybe he’d already acknowledged the truth. The evidence was staring him in the face. He tried to make excuses and even promised to change his diet and quit the booze if she’d ignore it. However, Daphne, bless her, wasn’t having any of it. She tip-toed into his lounge one afternoon and peaked under his blanket to examine the troublesome appendage. Sure enough, Tom’s right foot was black and swollen, smelling like rotten meat and weeping like a lost lamb.

   When the emergency duty team arrived an hour later, they wasted no time. Tom tried to negotiate for more time, but they were adamant. 

   “Move it or lose it,” said the medic. “You need an I.V., pal and pronto.” 

   Two days later, Tom had only one foot and possessed a shiny red wheel chair.

   Has he come to terms with it?

   I don’t think he ever will.

   But he’s accepted it.

The End