Then and now
Going back a bit: I wrote a lot just after I left hospital in August 2004. In the preceding months I’d occasionally made notes on a small (though thick and weighty) laptop PC; little snatches of others’ conversations, general observations on the shortcomings of National Health Service food, the negative psychological effect of a steady diet of Heart FM, that sort of thing. Many of these incisive insights went into a website (my friend Tig bought me a domain for Christmas), which is still around: www.sparshott.org
One day, I saw a nurse called Maisy steam past the ward entrance and immediately formed the sentence “Maisy stomps along the corridor looking even more murderous than usual,” in my head.
It was precisely then that I thought “I should write a book.” Not because it was a fabulous sentence, more to get that crap out of my head.
So, in the first few months after I returned home I wrote dozens of thousands of words; an early, skeletal version of Get Well Soon. None of that writing will be in the final draft - or even the first. The style is very dry, almost journalistic, but although it’s pretty much reportage, there’s certainly some interesting stuff going on. Here’s a bit about communication.
Yes/No Junior’s name is Callum; as well as yes and no he often says thank you and an occasional oh, GOD when he’s frustrated. His walking, unlike his speech, progresses remarkably; in a wheelchair when he arrives, a few weeks later he’s striding about with a translucent splint on one leg and a stick clacking on the lino. Not long afterwards he’s only using the stick to practice his golf swing.
I have a conversation of sorts with him, putting forward suggestions to which he can respond with a yes or no. I think my situation’s hard to imagine; his is just so far removed from normality…I have to admit I’m fascinated. I’m also being nosy, really, but he doesn’t seem to mind; in fact he seems pleased that someone’s taking an interest.
I ask where he’s from; he describes an ellipse on the tabletop.
“Is that London?”
“Yes.”
He then indicates the lower right hand side of the oval.
“Is it in London?”
“No.”
“Outside?”
“Yes.”
“Kent?”
“Yes!”
Result! That wasn’t too hard. With a bit more probing I get a clearer picture of his condition’s parameters. What I establish is that he’s lost the use of words – almost. He has no problem understanding speech (even mine) but can’t form sentences himself; he can’t write or type, not for any mechanical reason – his right side wasn’t affected by the stroke that landed him here – but because text simply doesn’t make sense. So you can ask him a question, such as where something is, and if he knows the answer he can take you there or draw a map, but he can’t write or give you any verbal directions. Like, he knows where his bed is, but can’t arrange the words Bay one, third from the left.
I deliver my professional verdict: ‘That’s fucked up .”
“Yes!”
If Callum can force himself to speak a sequence of phonetic syllables (is that redundant? Sorry) he then hears them as words and they make sense. His wife’s birthday is coming up. “I luv yoo joo lee,” he repeats as he roams the corridors. “Hap pee birth day.”
Julie looks like Susan Sarandon in The Witches of Eastwick, an explosion of red curls and a slightly mournful expression; which, of course, raises the obvious question of Who’d play you in the film of your life?
What do I look like? I expect you’ve formed some sort of image by now, even if it’s just a blank ovoid with glasses. I look like British actor Jude Law in some ways; we have the same number of noses, for example. OK, how about this: If there was a Henry Rollins Muscle Plan, I’d be the before picture in the advert, with a nose bent slightly to starboard. There’s no interesting story, it’s always been like that. There.
And here’s a little something I wrote earlier today. Different style, distinctly different subject.
I miss my cords. Black bootcut needlecords from Pop Boutique in Monmouth Street. A bit snug in the crotch area, but not enough to land me in A & E; some time in the mid nineties I found myself in Kingston hospital with an exquisitely sensitive hard-boiled egg where my right nut was meant to be. I liked the prescription, though; take these antibiotics, wear looser jeans, and wank more. That’s my kind of doctor.
Now I’m in these rotten trackie Bs - sweatpants if you must - with their easy-on-easy-off spastic elastic waist. I want my cords. Corduroy, from the French couer du roi, heart of a king. Or not, I just made that up, but it sounds plausible doesn’t it? I don’t know the correct entomology, but whatever it is, mine’s better. King of fabrics!
No, no, entomology’s beetles and things. Etymology. Christ I’m at a loose end.
