sunday 4 march 2012

sunday 4th march 2012

I wake up at 5:30 and feel the psyche back in command of the ship with the physical system beginning to rebuild after its recent collapse.

Kate and Darren came to see me early on Tuesday’s evening. They made their farewells at 9:20. Ten minutes later I was in bed in deep sleep. A full twelve hours.

Wednesday was a semiconscious state. Too weary to think. Too lacking in direction to go downstairs and eat. Almost a default state of lying in bed, coming to the surface now and again, and then relapsing into a state resembling sleep . Though not of the refresh and restore kind.

Thursday was of a like kind. In bed. Not the real me. Coming to the surface now and again to make a cup of tea or use the bathroom. At eight in the evening what remained of conscious mind prompted the thought that I had taken no food for two days. I was glad Monday’s shopping had included a tin of Big Soup. That was a short expedition to the kitchen. Two minutes in the microwave. Stir and return for one more minute. Consume. Leave the dirty dish on the draining board. Thinking about washing up is too much of an effort. I don’t recall going back upstairs to bed but it must have happened.

Friday. And the physical is drained. I am like a vehicle running on empty. The psyche prompts me. Makes me get out of bed and phone the medical practice. The reserve tank (Do cars still have a reserve tank?) and the self-preservation of the psyche get me there for my midday appointment with Dr Chang-A-Sue, a young Chinese woman with exactly the right approach. As I explain my symptoms and my minimal self-analysis she becomes aware she has been called to visit Barbara early this very afternoon. She will do so knowing the state I am in.

I make my way to the Union for lunch. I can manage soup and bread. I have no appetite for more. Mark comes in. Makes sure I have his phone number. If I need to get away from home, he will come and collect me. If it comes to it I have an escape route. In Boswells, Emilia fills my prescription. Makes sure I understand how and when to use the components. I make my way at a fairly steady two miles an hour to St Aldates and the bus stop.

16:30 - plus or minus. The house is full of people. The ambulance arrives. Barbara is taken back to hospital. She has a virus. Nikki, the occupational therapist, fills me in with the past the present and the future. Then they are all gone. I am alone in the house. Yet I am not alone. I am surrounded by animated shadows. I leave everything as it is. Climb the stairs to sleep. When I wake up it is well past seven. I must eat. The Duke of Monmouth is warm, newly refurbished and friendly.

Saturday. That was yesterday. I really remember very little about it. I was in bed. Too far gone for most of the time. Come the evening I return to the Duke of Monmouth. Cheese pie, jacket, salad, a glass of marsala, and change from £7. Incredibile. I sit in my own little island of silence surrounded by the bustle of those for whom the evening is just beginning.

Sunday. This is where we came in, as they used to say in the days when ‘the pictures’ had continuous showings. 11AMTO11PM as the News Theatre at Baker Street station had it. I must post this and then go back to bed. Psyche has rubbed away some of the mist from the window. Physical still has some way to go.

I go back to the top and read through before signing off and posting. The word GOTHIC in large wavy letters floats across the internal screen. Another part of memory reminds me of reading Edgar Allen Poe in the years before the doors clanged shut on that Sunday morning in 1939.

francis cameron, oxford

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