Hospital Visit

I feel guilty about going to the hospital. Guilty because I feel good about it. I am going on a holiday. At night, I lie awake planning what to pack, what to wear, and how much money to take. There are day trips to consider – the operating theatre, physio, radio, and chemo? Harbouring this feeling, which I am too ashamed to share with anyone, strangely energises me.

It’s miserable here. The Sydney winter always hurts more during the first week of June. They say La Nina is here, but this rain is something else. The three-bar radiator barely heats the living room. My near-70-year-old knees rattle with the windows. Outside, the grey sky peeks in through a tattered curtain. As much as I like my recliner, it gives me a backache, especially after an afternoon marathon of TV quiz shows.

When I announced my ‘holiday’ on the phone to those who need to know, I tried not to sound too upbeat. I relied on my voice to project a tone of misery. Listening to their silence felt satisfying. I could’ve set things right by offering reassurance and echoing the oncologist: ‘Cancer of the larynx is a better cancer to have. Beats shitting in a bag, or breathing through a machine, or dying. You just won’t be able to talk anymore. That’s all.’ But I didn’t want to tell them any of that.

I’m not sure what to expect, but I am not scared. Yes, there’s the crappy food to deal with, the cold room, the constant beeping of alarms, the pain and discomfort, being wired up, and the difficulty of falling asleep and staying asleep, but, I will have the constant company of strangers, room service, being wheeled down long corridors, ready-made meals, and no washing up. The focus will be on me. Fresh faces to look at, voices to listen to, and pats on the shoulder to remind me of physical touch.

Those menial tasks won't bother me for the next week/weeks/months - opening a can of beans, wringing my clothes by hand. I should have replaced that machine but was determined to fix it. My stubbornness got the better of me. When and if I come home, I will buy a new one. May as well spend what I’ve got. Can’t take it with me to hell.

Yes, I’ve been a bad boy. Assuming adultery is still considered a sin. A long time has passed since I’ve been to church. Maybe the doctrines have changed? I may be sixty-eight and very old to some, but I still have my wits about me. My eyes are still blue, though my skin is wrinkly, and the once thick brown mane is now wiry grey and thinning on the top. And I read. Loads. Magazines, library books, newspapers, and packaging. Keep me up to date with the modern world. My kids gave me a tablet, but it puts me to sleep—it must be that blue light they talk about. I prefer the act of turning a page or writing with a pen. When the mood is right, I also jot down lyrics to a melody playing in my head. Maybe I should have become a writer instead of a train driver—but at least I could daydream at that job.

Since the divorce, I have lived alone. Renting. It has been five years since Julie and I went our own way. My kids visit occasionally but only stay for a short time. Odd that I still refer to them as kids when they are 48 and 44 years old. Two sons who still act like kids. They complain about my sloppiness. ‘But I don’t entertain!’ I tell them. ‘It’s not important. ’ The smell, the neighbourhood, the noise, and the congestion remind me of how it was before they came along. Before I got married. As a child, those things didn’t matter.

The specialist confirmed cancer of the throat. He’s going to cut it out. The side effect will be the loss of my ‘broadcast-quality’ voice. I used to laugh when people told me my voice was meant for the radio.

The voice, I learned, is a liability. It flies off the handle and says the most stupid, hurtful things. Not just the words, but the uncontrollable intonation, volume, and seething anger loaded in those words. Afterwards, you are stuck with this awful feeling of self-hate and guilt. And saying a word like ‘sorry’ doesn’t come easily for me. I grew up thinking I had nothing to be sorry about because nothing ever, ever, went my way. Having a voice is overrated. Besides, I am not a singer or an actor—and if I were God, I would only give those people that ability. The rest of us could grunt, hum, and snore to our heart’s content.

I refused a bionic voice prosthetic. ‘As long as I have my eyes and legs and can use my hands to jot down a few notes or a poem, that’s enough for me,’ I told the young Middle Eastern surgeon. He looked at me as if I were already dead. ‘At least when you write, you can craft your message: read it over, reflect, correct, edit and proofread before it’s too late,’ I tell him, hoping he adds my little spiel to his repertoire of phrases for future patients.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

Regaining consciousness, I feel a hand on my cheek. As my eyes focus, I see the haze of a figure above me. Is it the archangel wanting to escort me into heaven? For a moment, I regret not believing there’s an afterlife. What a fool I was. However, as the haze materialises, a woman comes into view. Her cool fingers stroke my cheek. And then a voice.

‘Patrick. Patrick Hommel. Patrick, can you hear me?’

Her voice is deep yet tender and paced, like she is programming me.

‘My name is Mary. I am the nurse. This is Mary. You are in the recovery ward. Don’t speak; just squeeze my hand if you hear me.’

I feel her hand leave my cheek and entwine itself into mine. I want her to keep talking as I change my mind to include nurses on the list of those who must be gifted with a voice.

‘Just squeeze my hand if you can hear me.’

Feeling the slender, cool fingers nestle in my palm makes me want to warm them. I squeeze tighter. A constriction hampers the urge to look down and inspect what I’m doing. It’s not pain, but a feeling of a python wrapped around my neck, about to squeeze the life out of me.

‘That’s quite a grip you have there, Patrick. Can you tell me your address and date of birth…oops, sorry, ignore that.’

She laughs at herself. It’s a cackling laugh that triggers a memory. I can’t picture the location, person, or time, just the voice. It’s so familiar.

Nurse Mary picks up my wrist to read my pulse. Why did she say, ‘This is Mary’? As if saying, ‘Come on, old timer, you know who I am.’

This ‘Mary’ wears thick, modern black glasses; I can see she isn’t a young lady. Her lips are painted in a pink, bordered by a faint network of lines. Her face is the colour of milk coffee, covered with a slight sheen. Thick, short-cropped grey hair brushed back behind her dainty ears. I would guess she is close to my age, maybe older. I am 68, so maybe 70?

‘Your pulse is fine, Patrick. Or would you prefer I call you Flash? Oops, sorry again… don’t answer.’

Flash! How does she know my old nickname? It’s been years since I was called that. ‘Flash’ was a name given to me by my English teacher in Year 7. I hated it. I was always paranoid that people would think I was going to flash my cock at them, or that I was some sort of fancy upper-class wanker.

When I started high school, I always carried a pocket flashlight. Just one of those quirks kids pick up and hang onto. I had an intense fear of the dark and had to be prepared. While others had blankies, I had a flashlight. My parents wrote a letter to the principal requesting that they not confiscate my flashlight; getting me out of the house each morning without it was hell. So, the name stuck throughout high school, even though I grew out of it by year 9.

I want to ask for her full name but obviously can’t. I see a name tag on her collar– Mary Ellis. Mary Ellis? Mary…Mary Poulos? I freeze a few degrees lower than my already numb state, and drop my bottom lip to let warm air in. Nurse Mary removes her glasses and brings her face close to mine. ‘Yes, it’s me, Flash...it’s Mary, Mary Poulos.’

The gulp that forms in my throat has nowhere to go and feels as if it’s taking root. How shitty to silence me when I need my voice most. For a minute, I’m unsure if I want to shout out ‘Help!’ or apologise because the word ‘sorry’ is knocking on my tonsils. I wonder if Mary Poulos, my first girlfriend, is going to reach for a scalpel, slit my throat, and undo all the hard work the surgeon had done to remove the cancer.

“The surgeon should be here soon to discuss the operation, but reading your notes, all looks fine…but your voice. Jesus, Flash, an entire lifetime has passed. I am sorry you’re not well. Truly, I am. Over the years, I have often wondered if I’d ever see you again. I couldn’t believe it when I saw your name flashing at me in big, bold letters on the paperwork. I couldn’t resist but watch sleep—like I did when we were kids.’

She looks at me intensely, her eyes moisten. Her other hand clutches mine. ‘You just struck out, falling for someone like me. I don’t regret our time together, Patrick. Never had. You’ll be disappointed to hear that my parents got what they wanted –that their ‘good’ Greek girl married a Greek. However, six years later, he completely shattered their hopes when he turned out to be a deadshit. I know I hurt you, but you retaliated in the cruellest of ways.’

A tear runs down my face, and saliva dribbles from the corner of my mouth. My breathing becomes heavy, yet she continues to let me hold her hand. I don’t want to let it go because if I do, I will fall—I don’t know where. There are so many questions I want to ask. Obviously, she became a nurse—but did she remarry? Does she have children or even grandchildren? And I want to apologise for what I did. I don’t know why I did it in that way. I was so angry that she ended it like that. Year 12 formal was over, and so were we.

.....................................................................................

When I approached Mr Poulos that Sunday afternoon, he was gardening in his front yard. Armed with my rehearsed speech, I couldn’t help but just blurt it out, without a handshake or a hello: ‘Mr Poulos, Mary and I want to stay together, and we’ve been having sex! I know you and Mrs Poulos don’t like me, but Mary wants to be with me, and I want to be with her. You can’t stop us; if you do, we will disappear, move interstate or maybe overseas. We love each other.’

My voice was terse, croaky, yet loud, but the words rolled into a slur. I took a deep breath and repeated it - louder, slower, accusatory. As if I had decided that he had already robbed me of my greatest possession.

Mr Poulos said nothing. He didn’t even flinch. There was no acknowledgement, no anger, no shovel thrown at me—just a slow retreat inside his house. Movement behind the window’s curtain caught my eye. Mary had witnessed my outburst.

That was the last time I saw Mary. All I got from her was a note in my letter box with the message: ‘It’s over. Don’t call me again.’

I should never have approached her father, but I was desperate not to lose her. In hindsight, a simple plea that I loved and cared for his daughter would have been better. But as the months passed, I accepted I wasn’t the partner she wanted. I was a dumbass prick who would fail the HSC and embark on a career in manual labour while she would go to TAFE and marry a Greek boy. Simply put, it was time to move on.

..............................................................................

‘The surgeon will be here soon, and then you’ll be wheeled to your ward. Would you like me to visit? You’re squeezing my hand. Does that mean yes? Maybe just give me a blink—once for yes and twice for no.’

I look at her and blink once. I’m unsure if she intends to do away with me, but I don’t care. I want to see her again. Hear her voice. Let me apologise, not with my voice, but in writing. I will spend hours carefully crafting a long letter. Tell her about my life, that I never stopped thinking about her, and that I still have the book she made for my 17th birthday. A book filled with her poems, lyrics to our favourite songs, cut-outs from magazines of our favourite rock stars—The Beatles, Rolling Stones, and the Beach Boys.

‘Okay, I will visit you. You know I still have that brooch you took from your mum. I still love it. It’s wonderful to see you, Patrick. Really wonderful. I’ve always hoped to see you, even if just for a moment, to tell you that the past is behind me and you’re always in my thoughts.’

How cruel! All I want to do is shout out, ‘I am so sorry about what happened’, get up from the bed and hug her, but I am rendered helpless in silence and immobility. I smile at her, and she at me, as the surgeon’s green shadow replaces the angel’s white light.