Symbolic.

It will have been noted that awareness of mortality climbed out of the depths of a little used pocket when I had the cancer issue nearly four years ago. It crept up to sit on my shoulder and has remained there ever since, growing bigger and more visible as each new health issue has come along.

 

It never stops nudging me now, reminding me of its presence to ensure that I entertain no pea-brained notions of presuming to have a future. And that’s why the sight of autumn leaves falling to the ground, sometimes silently and sometimes with a clatter, has become especially poignant.

The Gothic Proclivity.

The urge to write seems to have fallen dormant lately, which is a shame because writing is the only thing which charges my batteries. Everything else is either a chore or something to be dreaded.Today I considered telling the little tale of the busker, the homeless man and the £5 note, but it seemed too insubstantial (which is a little odd considering the mass of even less substantial drivel I used to commit to this piece of cyberspace back in the early days.) And the story might have suggested a note of sanctimonious self-congratulation, which simply wouldn’t do.

Apart from that, the only thing worth mentioning tonight is the fact that the full moon is peering through the branches of the ash tree behind my house, apparently keeping a furtive watch on me through the smaller of the two windows in my office. That’s the one Mel keeps telling me needs a curtain because it’s creepy. To me, the sight of a furtive moon peering through the branches of a tree is merely gothic.

I like gothic. Seeing a full moon being alternately hidden and revealed by scudding clouds is also gothic. I’ve always had a yen to be one of a party of strangers trapped in an old dark house by a storm, while mysterious goings on scare the willies out of everybody but me. It won’t happen, of course. All I ever get are black dogs leaping at me out of my bedroom wall and startling dreams of an arm reaching over my shoulder to grab whatever is in front of me. (It happened twice a few nights ago.) And in those situations I’m always alone, which isn’t ideal. It’s an odd fact that interaction with strangers, while being unwelcome in most situations, is vital to the gothic experience. I’ve no idea why; it just is.

A Muse and a Little Magic.

I saw or heard something recently (alas, I forget what it was) which left me with the thought that none of us can have the remotest idea of what life is about until our consciousness learns to see itself for what it really is. It occurred to me that maybe that’s the secret of enlightenment. If I get any further, I’ll post it here.

*  *  *

And today I saw something close to magical on a nondescript street in nondescript little Ashbourne. There was a pristine, pale cream Hansom cab waiting to convey the bride and groom from their wedding at the nearby registrar’s office to wherever newly married couples retire after the ceremony. The Hansom cab was, indeed, handsome, but it paled beside what stood ahead of it: two magnificent, jet black horses, 16 hands apiece and identical as a brace of twins given genesis in some magical realm. I suppose that was the point. I suppose they were meant to symbolise the romantic and tragically ill-conceived notion that there is something magical about the state of matrimony. When it comes to the matter of magic, I’ll take the horses. I so wanted to reach out and touch these two, but it seemed disrespectful.

Mystic Meteorology.

By 11 o’clock this morning I was beginning to feel that I was about to fall over backwards and start frothing at the mouth, all courtesy of several incidents and an unexpected phone call from the Cardiology department of the Royal Derby Hospital (it was the third one this week, and I’m not going to elucidate further because it’s all becoming too silly.)

And then I had the phone call I was expecting from the Urology department, the one I’ve been dreading for a week because it seemed likely that it would be the purveyor of bad news. It wasn’t. CT scans clear and a simple projection for future screening was all I got. I went to do my weekly shop in a better frame of mind and even found something I’ve been seeking for two years in a charity shop.

So then it seemed to me that periods of good and bad fortune are much like weather systems. You wake up in the morning to dull skies, blustery winds and rain as a deep depression passes through. And then the rain stops, the wind dies down, the sky clears and the sun comes out.

We could do with a fortune version of weather forecasters, couldn’t we? Only they’d have to be more reliable than astrologers (and even weather forecasters.) And women called Mystic Myrtle who get paid to write whatever they feel like writing in tabloid newspapers definitely won’t do.

A Worrying Encounter.

I went for my Covid booster jab today. I arrived ten minutes before my appointment time only to find that the system had been changed and appointment times counted for nothing. The venue had become a walk-in centre and it was a case of first come, first served. In consequence, I was kept hanging around in a room full of people for an hour and twenty minutes.

That was irritating, but what bothered me more was the old lady sitting on a chair when I went into the hall where the jabbing was taking place. She offered me her seat.

Why would an old lady offer me her seat? Did I look as though I needed one? I’m fairly sure that I didn’t and so I politely declined. But then she moved to another seat on the further side of the room and I noticed that she was looking at me. When I returned her stare, she offered me her seat again.

She didn’t look mad or anything. She wasn’t dishevelled, she didn’t have long black hair covering half her face with only one eye showing, and she wasn’t wearing a long white nightdress. She looked perfectly smart and presentable.

At first I thought it nothing more than today’s little oddness. Lots of days have one or more little oddnesses about them. But then I had another thought: Suppose she was gifted with some form of second sight. Could she, perhaps, see the Grim holding station close to my leg and following my every movement? Might she have X-Ray vision and be cognisant of some internal feature of which I’m currently unaware?

That’s what’s bothering me because such things do, especially when I'm awaiting the results of two medical investigative procedures.

The Waiting Game.

Nearly three hours away from the house for the sake of a 20 minute procedure smacked of inefficiency to me. I had my echocardiogram today at the hospital.

The radiographer with the white plastic tool and the pot of slimy stuff was young, female, taller than me and somewhat taciturn. She was, however, wearing scrubs, and few things endear me to a young woman more than the wearing of scrubs.  I told her that I had written something about scrubs on my blog once, to the effect that I wondered why young women didn’t go to nightclubs in them since they’re far sexier than what young women routinely wear to nightclubs. She seemed unimpressed. Taciturn people usually do. So when she asked me to remove all my garments above the waist and I felt inclined to reply ‘I will if you will’, I chose discretion and kept my mouth shut. Remarks like that, however innocently meant, don’t go down too well these days, and rightly so.

She proceeded with the little white plastic tool and the pot of slimy stuff without saying a word, as you would expect of a taciturn person. The upshot of this was that I had no idea what, if anything, she was finding which might give cause for concern. She told me that her report would be sent to the cardiology department and I would be advised of the outcome in due course. So many words for such a taciturn person. I said ‘thank you for your time’ and she replied ‘you’re welcome.’ And that was that.

Next stop the vending machine on the way back to the car park. I’d decided to celebrate the successful prosecution of yet another procedure (that’s the 40^th in less than four years) with a cup of hot chocolate. Unfortunately, I omitted to read the instructions and performed the operation in the wrong order, the consequence of which was that I spent £2 on my debit card and received only an empty paper cup in return. I read the instructions and was faced with a decision: whether it was better to spend £2 and receive nothing, or spend £4 and get what I wanted. I chose the latter; it seemed the more positive approach. My first sip of the steaming beverage was immediately spat out (it’s fortunate that I’d taken it outside so I could remove my face mask.) It wasn’t so much steaming as searing. I suspect the machine needs a little adjustment.

So was that a good day or a bad one? You decide. I’m tired.

Meanwhile, I have a consultation with the urology department coming up on Wednesday, at their request. I can be quite sure that it won’t have anything to do with my heart, but apart from that I’m in the dark. The word of the moment is ‘waiting.’

Oh, I forgot to mention... The only truly notable feature of today's echocardiogram procedure was the fact that the machine which produced the images occasionally went into audio mode and I could hear my heart pumping blood. As reassuring as the sound was for obvious reasons, I couldn't decide whether it sounded like a pig gobbling swill or a dog being sick.

Danish Blue.

I discovered recently that the Danish word for speed is fart. They have road signs, apparently, which say ‘fart kontrol.’ And the surname of the young woman from whom I learned that interesting little fact is Klitgaard. I haven’t yet summoned the courage to ask her whether it’s Danish for chastity belt.

I do apologise for stepping a little outside the bounds of decorous communication here, but I’m having increasing difficulty finding something to say on this blog. I’m tired of the health issues, you see. They’re becoming extremely tedious again, although I expect there might be more to recount after I’ve had a procedure called a something-or-other cardiogram next Friday.

But for those interested in quality literature, I might just add that I’m at roughly the halfway point of Shirley Jackson’s The Sundial and have only just realised that it’s at least in part an absurdist comedy. Her awareness of the offbeat is most impressive.

Aborting the Dark Germ.

Some things just shouldn’t be written because sometimes they can take form and grow and cross over into the world we call the real one. Mahler knew this when he wrote Kindertotenlieder. He knew it again when he wrote Das Lied von der Erde. He ignored the warning of his instinct both times and suffered horribly. What’s worse, others suffered too.

I mentioned recently that I had the germ of an idea for a ‘ghost story for Christmas.’ Tonight it began to take shape, and as it did so I began to feel scared and ill. The red light of warning seemed clear. I chose not to ignore it.

For what would it avail me but a small fragment of kudos perhaps? Someone, somewhere, might compliment its originality. Such a small reward for the possibility of what it might engender. Such a high price to pay for so little achievement.

And so the child of imagination called Sadie Blackmore must never come into being. Please forget that I ever mentioned her. And do feel free to call me a fantasist and a coward. That much I will happily accept.

Cardiology and the Genius Loci.

I had to go to the cardiology department of the Royal Derby Hospital yesterday and I felt uncomfortable there. I looked around and found nothing obvious to explain it. The furniture and fittings were pretty much the same as all the other departments I’ve visited; the staff were polite, pleasant and efficient. And yet it didn’t feel right and I was anxious to leave.

Maybe it had an entirely prosaic explanation. Maybe it was all to do with the layout, the size of the rooms and the quality of the light. And it is a fact that the main part of the hospital is a veritable succession of mazes within mazes. It’s relatively easy to find your way in by following the signposts, but the signposts mostly point inwards, so finding your way out again is rather more difficult. Maybe the labyrinthine nature of the place simply encouraged the fear that the Minotaur’s lair might be too close for comfort. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I have a mild form of claustrophobia.

But I wondered whether other people felt the same way. I suspect they didn’t because I imagine most people are less sensitive to the genius loci than I am. Is that arrogant? I don’t know. I suppose other people might well feel the same way, but just don’t think about it as much as I do and don’t make the same connections. I have been accused of being weird often enough after all.

And on a more practical note, I’ve decided not to take the medication the doctor prescribed (and for which I waited nearly an hour at the hospital pharmacy.) Too many rules and requirements around the timing of doses, and too many side effects. It would screw up my lifestyle and take away what few simple pleasures I still have left to me. The angina is uncomfortable, but it’s the lesser of the two evils.

Today and Tomorrow.

Today’s visit to the hospital proved to be a somewhat difficult, dispiriting, lengthy and perplexing experience, and I returned rather later than I had thought likely. It was very nearly dark by the time I got home and the daily business of replenishing the birds’ feeding facilities only added further impetus to a mood already made sombre by a conscientious cardiology registrar and an overly busy hospital pharmacy. Tasks normally performed in daylight were rendered awkward by the requirement to possess three hands – two to perform the basic operations and another to hold the lamp. Being a typically symmetrical human being, I only have two.

The mood did not deepen when I shone the lamp into the mailbox by my front door and saw deposited there a letter bearing the words ‘Private and Confidential.’ ‘Deepen’ would be an understatement. It crashed. Here is a letter from the hospital, I thought, and there is no reason to think that it can refer to anything other than my recent CT scans. Furthermore, its being so prompt after the procedure can only mean one thing: this is a call to attend an interview with a consultant to be informed that either chemotherapy or curtains is imminent. I continued to do my duty by the birds, and then collected the letter to be read indoors.

It wasn’t from the hospital as I imagined, but from the credit card company informing me of my monthly debits and credits and resultant balance. Some sense of relief was in order, as you might imagine, but tomorrow is another day and another day might still bring with it the dreaded missive. That’s how life is at the moment and the situation is becoming tedious.

Meanwhile, the old dark rider who has been prowling around since the matter of the cancerous kidney nearly four years ago has been joined by a companion. This one concerns himself with matters of the heart – not the one which speaks fondly to attractive young nurses and sallow-skinned pharmacy assistants with chocolate voices – but the physical one which gives life to our mortal vehicle. He waits patiently for the verdict from two further procedures to which today’s visit have committed me. They will determine whether the dear old organ has the means to sustain its host without assistance, or whether the attention of those trained in such matters will be necessary. For the time being, I now have a fourth medication to augment my ratting habit.

Are you getting all this?

The house is colder tonight than it was last night. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…

Life goes on for now.