13th May: 'Why do you look to the skies?'

Like the previous night, I barely slept. The pain in my side and back made that impossible. My demands for drugs were denied me as I had, “Had my daily allowance”. 

Deprived of sleep and in pain—and despite the inconsistency between the nurse’s words and the instructions on the tablet boxes at home—I couldn't (to plagiarise Charles Ryder in Brideshead Revisited), “match the nurses’ game-cock maturity with a sturdier fowl”, I got up and continued to pace around the room. 

This day is Ascension Day, when the disciples saw Jesus ascend to heaven, leaving them with the promise of ongoing heavenly intercession. I too gazed at the skies that night, but the sky was merely four tiles on the room ceiling with pictures of clouds and the sun inserted by the architect to give the illusion of daylight. In my state, this architectural trick felt like an act of cruelty, the sun and the sky are a long way off.

This, I am embarrassed to say, was my self-pitying day. 

In my room with no natural light, I imagined myself to be Terry Waite... Which is nonsense, and unworthy. Still, that day’s treatments (a throat scan, insertion of a pick cannula, bloods taken, and a bone marrow biopsy), felt like acts of torture in my dungeon (they even showed the instruments!).  

Bizarrely the worst torture, the bone marrow biopsy, became a mini-panto as a diminutive elegant doctor, accompanied by a student, met my behind. 

“Is there a black one in there?” the Doctor enquired. 

“There’s a green and yellow one” came the uncertain reply from the student. 

“No, it has to be a black needle, those aren’t long enough.” 

“Not long enough” I thought, having caught a glimpse of those pikes, “where’s she fetching this marrow from?”

I asked if there was a problem, but was reassured tactfully, “that the pelvis is sometimes too far away”. 

The student was duly sent packing to find a black one. A minute later, she returned clutching what looked like a canteen of cutlery, and said, “The nurse says we don’t have any that size we have to order them”. 

The doctor examined the new silverware but noted the fittings were for diabetic syringes. 

“I can’t believe there’s no black ones, can you ask the nurse to come?” 

The nurse came. The question as to the availability of the black needles was resurrected, the nurse looked at me, grimaced, and reiterated her claim that someone who’s padding is more suited to the Hypos factory is not  catered for within their regular stock. 

“Bare with me,” came the doctor’s consoling words. 

There I was, alone, with the student; my knees against my chest; and my ‘mattress’ exposed to the world. 

It is at moments like this that my clerical training came to the fore, cue: small talk…

“I expect it was the glamour that drew you to medicine?” 

The student, sensing my feeble attempt at gallows humour, replied simply and awkwardly, “Don’t worry we get used it”. 

As I pondered how a 19-year-old could be “used to this”, in stepped the triumphant doctor wielding the black needle like Corporal Jones. And I, like the enemy, "did not like it up 'um!"

Exiting the farce, and in the midst of the worst massage in history, the Black Dog growled in my head. I was sick of people doing simple things for me. I had to ring if wanted a drink; I had to ring if I wanted tablets; I had to ring if I wanted the loo. Constantly, people doing things for me. Inwardly, I screamed "I'm not an invalid!!!" 

In reality though, I was a spoilt brat, who was now learning an important lesson about pride and caring. Lord, make me a better priest and person, and not like Augustine later, but now.

As the day progressed, the pain subsided, and I gathered a sense of perspective. Thank our risen and ascended Lord for those who help when it is not wanted, and for a wonderful wife who will unleash Cerberus just to get me sunlight.