His pyjamas were loose.   He could see his feet when he stood up, and this was all very good news for nurses and doctors, but he was being starved to death with malice aforethought.  He wouldn’t need the operation, because he’d be long gone by the time his name came up on the list.  How many days or weeks had he been in here?  No bloody idea.  He’d probably be leaving in a wooden overcoat, but who gave a fig?  Sleep was his only escape, but even that wasn’t perfect.  He had dreams.  Most were nightmares, and the few good ones reminded him of what life might have been had he got away with his supposed misdeeds. 

            No visitors, either.  That was, perhaps, a good thing, since even his daughter seemed to have turned against him.  He hadn’t seen Lucy since the day on which she’d grabbed power of attorney, while his sons had always stood by their beloved Mums.  She’d been so passive and non-confrontational, and her change into a higher gear was something he would never have expected.  The most annoying factor was that he had failed to guard himself, because he’d always known that she was a clever bitch underneath all that calm.  ‘Bloody women,’ he cursed yet again. 

            Mr Evans-Jones walked in.  He was Welsh, and Alan was of the Anne Robinson school of thought when it came to the lovers of sheep.  Not that he knew any Welsh folk.  He was basing his opinion on this one man, who got on his bloody nerves.  So damned full of themselves, flaming surgeons.  ‘Go to hell,’ Alan muttered under his breath.

            ‘Mr Henshaw?’

            ‘I think so.  It was the last time I looked in the mirror, though even I had a job to recognize me.  I look like a bloody scarecrow.  If you think of it another way, I’m escaping this dump a pound at a time, and you’re doing nothing about it.  Don’t bother with a coffin – a plastic bag will do.’

            The surgeon sat down.  ‘I shall operate on your heart tomorrow, probably in the morning.  You’ll be glad to have it over with, what?’

            The item nominated missed a beat or two.  ‘Right.  So that means no breakfast.  I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss the crap you serve in here.  It’s a bit like trying to eat your way through a mattress or three.  And the milk’s like white water.’

            ‘The anaesthetist is satisfied with your progress, though it is my duty to tell you that there are always risks.  However, those short walks and the gentle exercises have done some good.  You will need time to recover, of course, but we expect a good result.’ 

Did these bods ever listen to anybody?  Were they all deaf and ignorant?  Alan fixed his eyes on the enemy.  ‘Does it never occur to you soft arses that some of us die in our own way?  I’d sooner go as pissed as a newt and up to my eyes in fish and chips on the back of a drayman’s cart.’

            The doctor answered after a short pause.  ‘Then there’s your answer.  Go home.  I can’t force you to accept this operation.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘Withhold your consent for the procedure.  Then go home and die.  The choice is yours.  You would be completely within your rights.’

            ‘I can’t go home.  Because I have no bloody home.  And if I don’t do as she says, my last weeks on earth will be spent under the arches at Turner Brew.  No money, you see.  She has it all.’

            The surgeon decided that Mrs Henshaw was a sensible woman, though he kept the thought to himself.  ‘I shall need to know some time today.  This may be a private facility, but I have a list to complete, and I shall have to-‘

            ‘Give it here.’  Alan held out a hand.  He opened a drawer and took out a monogrammed Cross fountain pen, signing the consent form with a flourish.  ‘Cremate me when you fail to save me,’ he said.  ‘No service, just throw my ashes to the winds.  Because I don’t give a shit.’

            Surgeons were not supposed to have opinions.  They were butchers who dealt in flesh and bone;  they could not be expected to communicate with the inert, even when the inert was technically mobile.  But sometimes, just sometimes . . .  ‘Mr Henshaw, your wife is paying almost three thousand pounds a month for your residence here.  A further nine thousand will just about cover the operation, the anaesthetist, theatre time and medications.  She is a generous woman.’

            ‘Oh, bugger off and sharpen your cleaver.  I’m past caring.’

            ‘And you must never, ever drink again,’ was the doctor’s parting remark a moment before he closed the door.  Yes.  Sometimes, just sometimes, there was a patient who didn’t quite deserve the chance to be saved.

            Alan stood at his window.  He’d been through one hell of a time, and it wasn’t over.  There would be pain, and there would be danger.  But yes, it was time to take stock.  He had survived a terrible withdrawal.  No delirium tremens, no creatures crawling up walls, but physical torture so acute that he had railed and ranted against his wife, his family, God, Davenport Plumbers’ Merchants who always overcharged, Mags for forsaking him, and the man in the next room, who cried most nights. 

            It was time to be sensible.  Tomorrow, he would get the chance for a fresh start.  If he survived the surgery, if he kept off the drink . . . he would go to live with Lucy in Liverpool.  Once there, if he behaved himself, he might persuade her to start him up in business again.  Nothing strenuous, of course, but something to keep him occupied.  A shop, perhaps.  No.  There was no future for small retail businesses.  But he would do something, and he would do it without the support of malt whisky.  He had no choice.  All his options had been removed and, tomorrow, he might die.

 

From Mersey View.  Published 2nd July 2010