The Twinkling of an Eye. Sue Brown
up at first light, taking Craig back to ‘his’ room and a hero’s welcome at the children’s ward. His tog bag is packed with clothes, movie DVDs, his favourite Soccer World Cup blanket. His soft dog is safely stowed away for his return from ICU.
Dr Farrier arrives – greeting his patient first, and complimenting him on the haircut, as if he is the only one in the room. The doctor is very quiet. Is this his normal, or is he tense about the surgery he is about to perform?
‘Please can I have the tumour in a bottle?’ asks Craig. ‘I want to smash it with a hammer!’
The doctor smiles. ‘I will have to take it out in very small pieces – but I promise to break it up really well for you.’
‘Has anyone seen the anaesthetist?’ he asks, but finds only blank looks for answers, and little shakes of heads among the nursing staff. But the porters have arrived to wheel Craig up to theatre. It is time to go.
Walking behind Craig’s bed, I see a scruffy man in late middle age walking towards us down the hospital corridor. Papers spill from an overstuffed brown leather bag slung over his shoulder. I feel disbelief that this could possibly be the man about to anaesthetise my son.
Neil stops to help pick up the reams of patient stickers trailing him, on which ‘Mstr Craig John Brown’ are very clearly printed.
‘Sorry I am late, I had forgotten my wallet, and had to go back home,’ he casually explains.
I am overawed at the size of the operating theatre that we enter, its enormous lights like the compound eyes of gigantic insects looming over us. But the efficiency of the staff in their green scrubs – including even the eccentric anaesthetist now at the head of the operating table – calms.
In a cruel parody of the bright lights of Seussical the Musical, not so very long ago, Craig is now at the centre stage of a very different type of theatre. The baby kangaroo has been disrobed of his golden outfit, stage makeup and cocky attitude.
In their stead are a small white body clad only in underpants and a sterile, oversized green gown, and a scalp exposed by a severe haircut.
Shivering, he wiggles obediently sideways onto the narrow steel operating table, and is covered with more of the thick, green sheeting. He asks for a ‘last touch’ of the silver crucifix a friend has given him. I have promised to wear this on his behalf. I hold the hand nearest me under the covers, while he helps the anaesthetist hold the mask over his face with the other.
His eyes close within seconds.
I may now give him a kiss, but I shakily decline: ‘He has not liked being kissed by me since he was three – he would not like that.’
I am gently escorted out of the theatre, stumbling away down the long passages in my own, bulky theatre garb, and slippery, green overshoes. Tears course down my face at the agony of leaving behind my boy, on the other side of those closed steel doors.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.