I’m skidding down the ward in my electric wheelchair and am in a slightly more buoyant mood than usual since I am supposedly leaving here in a couple of days. I run into my semi-paralysed pal from the next bay, who, like me, read philosophy at university, and I ask him if he has a moment to discuss a pressing moral issue. One of my sons attended a small party recently, and as a generous gift took two chocolate bars containing magic mushrooms, leaving them in a bag at the entrance. It should go without saying that within a short space of time, the family dog had penetrated the bag, and had its way with the magic mushrooms, consuming most of them. Very soon, the beast – which was a small Chihuahua – was tripping off its head, eyes like saucers, whimpering hysterically. The dog had to be rushed to the vet to have its stomach pumped, which not only added to the ruin of the evening but cost the host five-hundred quid. The dog, eventually, was fine. The next morning, the host asked my son to pay the vet’s bill. But whose responsibility was it? This was the subject that the philosopher and I discussed. We both concluded, of course, that it was the host’s duty to control their excitable Chihuahua, particularly as the chocolate was well wrapped up.
But there was some wrangling between my son and the host as to who should pay the bill, nevertheless my philosophical friend was adamant; it was the owner’s responsibility, unless it became a legal issue, when the magic mushrooms themselves, a banned drug, would then come into play. The philosopher concluded, as philosophers might, that it was both necessary and contingent that the dog would eat the chocolate, but it was however the host’s responsibility.
By now, my pal was having his urine bag emptied, as we continued the thorny discussion. Before we parted, I asked him how he was proceeding with his plans to kill himself, another moral matter we had been considering. Because it is difficult to kill yourself while paralysed and in hospital, he had decided that the most effective method, and least painful, was to die of hypothermia in the garden. But as it is relatively mild now, I said he could be sitting out there for hours. He claimed that it would take twelve minutes to die dressed in a T shirt. He must have Googled it; the chances were that someone would see him, and he might be sectioned. Unfortunately, he would have to go on living, even over Christmas.
I saw coming towards me a young nurse who had been taking care of me and was looking unusually cheerful. I asked her what had brought on this burst of sunshine, and she told me she had got a new better paid job. She was tired of the long hours and low wages of her present occupation. She had applied and been accepted to become a prison officer in a women’s jail not far from here. I congratulated her but said that the conditions would be tougher than they would be on this ward, where things worked pretty well, and it was reasonably calm. At the end of the eighties, I had worked briefly as a creative writing teacher at a woman’s prison, Holloway Park, in north London. I cannot forget the awful smell of the place, the cries and moans, and the clanking of the keys as the warders locked the doors behind you. The class was the most difficult I had ever taught. There were five or six women in it, most of whom, as far as I knew, were murderers. I tried to encourage them to write their stories but didn’t know how dyslexic or literate they were. Some of them had been in prison since their late teens, and one woman, notoriously, had stabbed her violent pimp. Sitting at the back of the class, as I tried to teach them ideas about creativity and the therapy of writing, she would lift her shirt and wiggle her bare breasts at me. But my attempts at teaching these troubled women ended when the other teacher I worked with, a young black playwright, was locked up by one of the warders, who accused her of trying to escape in plain clothes. It took some time for the authorities to be persuaded that this woman was an educationalist and not a criminal.
In the gym, I am joined by a middle-aged African man, a complete stranger who is due to come and live in my house with me as my carer. I am a chatty person, and he is quiet if not withdrawn. Soon I became exhausted trying to get anything out of him, except when he went off to have lunch and complained that he only liked to eat his own food, enjoying a yam at lunchtime. I said you’d be lucky to get a yam on the hospital menu, but it would be easier to get food that he liked when we are in west London, where I live. As I say, I am quite exercised by the issue of going home and living with a stranger as well as Isabella. But that is my situation now, after a year of all this. And not only that, it turns out that some of the equipment, like the hoist which the carer will use to get me in and out of bed, might not turn up until January.
Some of the patients, including my philosophical pal, will have to stay here over Christmas where there will be no physio or other therapies. I can imagine that it will be quite bleak. The doctor tells me that I am welcome to stay but I really don’t fancy it. The following morning, my carer fails to turn up, and I worry about going home without support. Isabella will do her best, but she is not, and does not want to be, a professional carer. As we are about to leave the hospital for home and I am being strapped into the back of the van, a woman turns up as the replacement. She seems charming and capable. Forty minutes later I am at my house where there is now a bed in my living room and a new bathroom with smart yellow tiles. I am agitated, elated, and confused, as I always am when entering a new situation - but I am relieved, I wonder how this latest move will work out.
Home, Hanif! I hope it smells good and right, that your dog is close, your wife, with sons and loved ones visiting as you wish. It has taken a year but you are home. Let there be peace--sometimes, anyway. Perhaps that's all we should all hope for. Let there be peace.
Dear Hanif, Your sly humor cannot be repressed, lucky for all of us, your devoted readers. You have found something beautiful. A way, a path through suffering. Thank you! And happy, happy homecoming! Another great adventure and on Christmas! May it be merry! Is there a tiny nibble of the magic mushrooms left for you? Love from Boston!