Did you ever?

Last updated: Sun, 15 Jul 2007 11:35:00 GMT

First published February, 2005.

It's a cold night. Clear sky, arctic weather systems. It snowed heavily as I drove home. When the snow cleared there was twilight still, though the sun was long gone. The moon was up, and the fields of snow reflected its light. And although we seem to be making our way out of winter towards spring, I prefer the weather of real seasons to the wishy-washy rain and gloom we get so much of.

I can't sleep. I've been concocting fake arguments lately. Not so much fake, as imaginary, between me and those who are doing me wrong. It's a sure sign that I'm unhappy. Today at work I found me telling myself — I'm not sure if that's grammatically correct, or even acceptable — that I didn't f***ing care. I've been doing that a lot recently, too: saying that I don't care. I don't care if this guy does that, or the next guy steps on my dick by fixing something I should have, or some other guy writes down what I just said and emails it off to the boss.

"Hey, boss, I just had this great idea!"

I don't care that I'm not getting enough exercise and I'm too fat. I don't care that I seem to have drifted apart from my old friends. I don't care that I'm not making any new ones. I don't care that I'm not being productive enough, or that I'm miserable at work. I don't care that I'm not showing my wife enough attention. I don't care if my kid thinks I hide behind a laptop to start a game of hide and seek. I don't care if I die in a car crash on the way to work; man, I've got to do something to liven up my life. I drive to work at 90mph, though I'm in no hurry to get there. I give the finger to the guy who cut me up. I flash my lights, I hit my horn.

Like Tyler's loser alter-ego I argue with those I feel have wronged me, I argue in my head, imagine the things I would say to them. The injustice of it. Did you ever?

The weather tonight reminds me of a night a long time ago. I was twelve.

Did you ever stand alone and scared in a hospital room, with a decision to make? Did they ever tell you that you'd be in a wheelchair in a year? Did they offer you the operation? Did they tell you the chances of success? Did they tell you the chances you'd live through it? Did you make the decision?

I did.

Spend enough time in hospitals and you'll see a few things that might lend you a little perspective.

Last time I was in hospital — coincidentally that same hospital, though I've moved hundreds of miles several times since then — I'd just been ambulanced in after a "traumatic crush wound" to the hand. In fact I'd got my thumb caught in a motorcycle chain. The chain had pulled the tip of my thumb in and around the rear sprocket, twisted the pulp off the end, pretty much down to the cuticle. I clasped the thumb in my hand, wandered into the house and calmly asked the wife to phone an ambulance. I released my numb thumb to examine it under a running tap. It didn't hurt, but I was a bit shocked to see 10mm of bone sticking out of the end.

After cleaning the garbage out I slipped a rubber band over the base of my thumb to act as a tourniquet — a trick I'd seen in A&E three weeks earlier when a doctor used it to stem the bleeding while stitching up the little finger on the same hand, after I'd laid it open to the bone with a staple — I went out the garage to find the tip of my thumb. Having located it, I went back into the house, placed both the hand and the thumb in a plastic bag and put the whole lot into a bag of frozen french fries. Then I sank to the floor and tried gamely not to pass out before the ambulance arrived.

Anyway.

As I sat in the plastic surgeon's office, waiting for him to come out of theatre so that he could give me the prognosis on my severed thumb, I concentrated fiercely on the various medical charts and anatomical teaching models decorating the room. Not only a good way to learn, so that I can talk intelligently to the guy when he gets here, but also a great way to think about something other than how much my goddamned hand is hurting now.

Screams broke the silence. At first, I was startled, and they seemed incoherent. But as I adjusted they became clearer. Obviously an old man, missing his teeth. By the sound of it he was suffering, and he was asking to die.

A nurse came in with a cup of tea and some biscuits. I hadn't eaten that day, and I was grateful. As well as the sustenance, it was nice to talk to someone. I had asked my wife to stay at home with our baby, out of practicality, and though I like to put on a brave face, I was missing some sympathy. I asked the nurse about the screaming.

"God, yes. I'm sorry. Ignore him; he's been going like this all day. We're getting sick of it."

That sounded harsh. My face must have betrayed me.

"Really, if you'd been listening to this since seven this morning you'd be sick of it, too. And he's being a bastard about it. We have to try and help him, and he's being offensive and violent with my staff."

I let it lie. It wasn't my call. She explained that he was diabetic, and that his poor circulation was killing his limbs. Already he'd lost both hands and a foot. Apparently being punched with a stump is quite painful. He was in a lot of pain, she said, but refusing medication.

She left the room and began remonstrating with the old man. She asked him to be quiet, he asked her to let him die. She said she couldn't do that, and told him not to be so silly. He said something offensive and began to struggle, she threatened to strap him to the bed. His cries became plaintive. Pathetic. Undignified.

Even now, it depresses me to think of it. But that day it made my brave face a lot easier to wear.

Back then, when I was twelve, there was a kid called Richard. He was nine, he had cancer. He had a tumour up his nose, which was funny to us, but it bled a lot, and it was growing. It would kill him, but apparently it wasn't safe to operate to remove it. So, regular as clockwork, Richard was admitted every six months to have this tumour "controlled". He took it on the chin. He was a good kid.

I was faced with a choice when I was twelve: waste away in a chair or take a calculated risk? I had maybe a few decades of degeneration to lose, and I was an adventurous, active child. Decision? No decision. I took the chance.

It paid off. The operation was a resounding success. The degeneration was not only halted, but I regained some of the sensation and motor control I'd lost. I was housebound for six months, missed a lot of school. When I returned to school I was treated like bone china. No physical education for me — too dangerous, go to the library. I got fat. I've stayed fat, pretty much.

And since then, I seem to have been looking for someone to blame. Everything I'm not happy about is someone else's fault, though I'm way too old to be blaming anyone for anything. I'm a die-hard cynic, and everything tastes bitter in my mouth. Though I was given the rest of my life, I resent it. I resent what happened back then. I resent what's happened since.

I'm wrong.

That choice was a gift, and I've forgotten that. At twelve years old I was handed wisdom on a plate. There's no "poor me" about it; lucky me, for being shown in immediate, personal detail what other people bandy around as if just the words have some value in themselves.

Take nothing for granted. Every day is a gift.

You could get hit by a bus tomorrow.