Thursday 5th October 2017

I was woken at quarter to eight by the phone ringing. There was a phone beside the bed; who knew? I pick it up and it is the nurse again saying Mum was awake and all was going as expected.

Would I like to talk to her? OK. She walks over the ICU and holds phone to Mum. Say hello to your son. And in a croaking voice, hello. How are you Mum. Hello. Can you hear me? Hello.

I gave up and spoke to the nurse again, and agreed with her I would be there at midday, and the good news is that there no closed hours, just between two and three. Finally she said to call again at ten after the doctor had done is rounds, and things would be clearer.

I have breakfast and a cuppa. And think about what I would see; how ill she would be and how many machines would be keeping her alive.

I had to take about a dozen bags of out of date food to the local tip, so come ten I call the ICU, she was still OK and it was OK to visit, I’m on my way, I said.

I take the car to the local tip, the south side of Lowestoft, on the industrial estate where I was a draysman for a few months, oddly the nervous tick didn’t return. *Wink”

There is a queue, as people decide to declutter their lives, or get ride of some garden waste or, as I saw an old woman struggling with, 3 old doors. I get a parking space and begin to take the bags to be dumped. That done, I realise I had lost an hour already.

The sat nav said the trip would take 2 hours and 5 minutes, so with the radio on, I put my foot down, and off I went, down the southern bypass, which bypasses nothing, really, then through to Beccles and turning down onto the Bury road, passing by Bungay, Harleston; the way we usually travel back from Mum’s in other words.

It was glorious day, a day which should have been spent taking pictures of the sunlight on the trees turning to gold. Onto the A14 and from then on, traffic was heavier and quicker.

Still a fine day to be out, but my mind to wonder how I would find Mum. Time would tell, and in little time in fact. I go through Cambridge, and on the road to Bedford, along the road I used to commute to Lyneham down all those years ago, 21 years ago in fact. At least it is a better road now, duelled, at least until I turned off towards Papworth Everard.

The hospital is nothing like I imagined; a cluster of small buildings with car parks inserted where they could be fitted in And spaces were at a premium. But I find one, then discover that I need change for the fee; being sick or being a relative or friend of someone in hospital, parking is like a tax; two pounds fifty for two hours. It adds up if they are in for some time.

The cardiac unit is in a new building, and the ICU is two floors up, no lift, that I could see. Best get the old heart pumping, all things considered.

I have to call from the door to the unit before being admitted. A nurse comes and takes me to see Mum. She is in bed, looking grey and connected by pipes and tubes, including one into her neck. She is barely conscious. But we do talk, a little. She slips into sleep many times, but I do talk to her. Nurses and doctors come to introduce themselves and say they were pleased how things had gone. Mum could hardly swallow, but had to have some water to help take two pills, one another painkiller as she said it hurt when she coughed.

A physiotherapist came, and took her heart beat with a stethoscope, despite there being an expensive machine monitoring that all the time behind the bed. I help Mum answer some questions, then it became clear that they wanted to get Mum out of bed to walk. She became distressed and I came over ill. Yes, I hate hospitals, and do make me feel ill. As it was twenty to one, visiting would stop at two anyway, so having seen Mum, I say I will go, get some air and come back tomorrow.

I had come over in a cold sweat, and so was good to be back out in the warm sunshine, walk back to the car and drive out of the hospital and begin the two hour trip back to Oulton Broad.

It was gone two once I had passed Cambridge, making good time pressing on to Newmarket and Bury. From there it was a two lane road across Suffolk, but the hard part was done, so I could take my time, and maybe stop at a couple of interesting churches I could see from the road, and promised myself I would stop one day That day was today.

First up was Wattsfied, and the church could be seen up a narrow lane lined with thatched cottages from the main road. Looked like it should be unlocked, nice village and all that. But was locked. I could have rung for the key, but there would be other times. I take a snap and walk back to the car.

Back onto the main road, I see a sign pointing to the north to Hinderclay, and think I should investigate, so turn off and follow the signs to the village. At the village crossroads, I can’t see the church, but taking the right turn back to the main road, I spy a sign pointing to the church, hidden behind some mature trees.

And this was open, unlocked. But I can’t find the light switch, so it is really gloomy inside, but well worth stopping, the nave and chancel feeling tiny beside the impressive tower.

And now to home, where I thought I would have an early dinner as I hadn’t had lunch. And a drink. Very thirsty.

The road from Haddiscoe over the marshes is always a delight, lined as it is by pollarded trees, and having clear views east and west along the river and New Cut.

Then turn towards the coast at St Olaves, up the long straight road to Herringfleet and Somerleyton.

I did stop once more, at a farm where they sell unpasteurised milk, and I thought I should really try some. Three pounds a litre, so I buy two, served by three ruddy cheeked farmgirls who were very proud of their milk. I could see the milk through the container, golden, the colour of cream. Lovely, if unhealthy.

And then home, where straight away the phone started to ring, people wanting to know how Mum was, so inbetween fielding calls, I cook bangers and mash.

Mum’s friend Janet comes over and tells me that Mum told her when she was in James Paget, that Mum said I was throwing her stuff out. Imagine doing all what I have done and be moaned at behind your back?

I was livid. And remained angry all evening. I was angry watching England play, the fact it was a poor game did not help, but then I had a glass of wine, and another, and I just needed someone to talk to. It was now 11 at night, thankfully a couple of good friends answered a Facebook post so I talked to them for a couple of hours, whilst I had more wine. None of it clever, but thanks for good friends, I went to bed happier and less angry.