A Gift to You (23 page)

This has been his nightmare for the past year. This is why he has only allowed himself a small cup of tea with his breakfast every morning before work. His bladder is a weak spot over which he
is losing control. A metaphor for his life, the Judge thinks grimly, positioning himself at the toilet bowl.

A cold sweat breaks over him as he relieves himself, his sodden pajama trousers damply clinging to his purple-veined legs. A memory that he has buried deep in the dark recesses of his mind
resurfaces.

No, no, I will not think of that
. He forces himself to concentrate on his predicament. He will have to shower. Change his pajamas. But first he will have to face those two females
outside who have witnessed his shame.

‘Everything OK in there, Mr Harney?’ The nurse calls through the bathroom door. Waves of humiliation wash over him as he bends to wipe the urine spattered floor with wads of toilet
paper.

‘Yes! Yes! I, eh . . . I . . . could you give me a couple of moments privacy please? I’ll ring you when I’m ready for you,’ he says with as much authority as he can
muster.

‘Certainly, no rush,’ she says evenly. ‘I’ll do the other patients first.’

‘Thank you,’ he manages, utterly relieved when he hears the monitor being trundled away.

He is rooting in his locker for clean pajamas when the door opens again and the tea lady appears with a mop and bucket. The strong harsh smell of disinfectant scents the air as she sets the
bucket down. He cannot meet her gaze.

‘The cleaners are on lunch break so I’ll just give this a little swizz around,’ she says matter-of-factly, dipping and mopping in wide circular motions. ‘I know
it’s not me job, but it won’t take a minute, luv. Don’t tell the union though. Ye know what they’re like!’ She laughs at her little joke.

‘I . . . I apologise, er . . . for . . . em—’

‘Nothing worse than leaky waterworks. Don’t worry about it, luv, I’ll just do the bathroom floor. Kate’s gone to get you a plastic bag for your pj’s.’

‘Kate?’ he says distractedly, trying to keep his dressing gown from touching his damp pajamas.

‘Yer nurse, luv,’ she calls from the bathroom.

He hears the sound of running water. ‘I turned on the shower for ye; sure you’ll be as fresh as a daisy before ya know it. Is there anything else I can do for ye, luv?’ She
emerges from the bathroom and fixes him with a kindly stare. In it he sees something that infuriates him. Pity.

‘Nothing more, thank you,’ he says curtly, and turns his back on her. How
dare
she pity him! How dare someone of her ilk feel sorry for the likes of him, he rages, wishing
she would be gone.

He marches into the bathroom with his clean pajamas and slams the door.

‘Jayziz, he’s a grumpy ould fuck, Kate,’ he hears her say to the nurse, who laughs.

The nerve of them laughing at him. He seethes, stepping into the shower. The absolute nerve!

The slow bubble of resentment simmers for the rest of the day. When the tea lady comes with his lunch, he keeps his head in his paper and merely grunts when she lays down his
tray. He has no difficulty maintaining an air of
froideur
when the nurse comes to take his blood pressure again several hours later. He remains mute, staring out the window onto the
spring-adorned grounds below. An apple tree, voluptuous with pink and white buds bursting into bloom, soothes his troubled spirit. When the nurse has gone, taking all her accouterments with her,
the Judge exhales and lets some of the tension release from his body.

‘A grumpy ould fuck,’ the tea lady had called him. And she had pitied him because she had seen his dignity in tatters. To her, he was just an old man, with all the problems that come
with aging. Not a judge in his wig and gown, feared and respected in equal measure. Those symbols, that he has taken such pride in, were merely props that he has hidden behind for many, many years.
And now here in this alien place, they have been stripped away and he is revealed in all his frailty. Another elderly patient that has to be attended to in this small, pleasant, airy room where
status is of no importance.

‘Will you be having a cup of tea tonight? You don’t need to fast until midnight,’ the tea lady asks, when she collects his tea tray. The rays of the evening sun shine harshly
on her face causing her to squint. He sees each line etched into the pale, thin visage. She has known hardship, he can see that. She reminds him of some of the mothers who have stood stoically in
his court with their sons and daughters, weary to their bones at the hardship their offspring’s criminality brings.

‘You may bring me one,’ he says coldly, remembering what she had called him earlier.

‘Grand,’ she says and then is gone with the tray. He hears her calling to one of her colleagues that Number 224 is due up from theatre and will be wanting tea and toast in a
while.

He is in room 222. No doubt she calls him Number 222 when she is not calling him derogatory names, the Judge thinks, sulkily flicking his TV channels to get the news.

He has a busy evening. His consultant calls and explains yet again about the bladder-sling procedure he will preform the following morning. The anesthetist comes to listen to his chest. His wife
and brother call to visit and he is fatigued by the time the tea lady comes to collect his supper tray.

It is after eight p.m. She has been on duty since early that morning. Tiredness seeps through her bones; he can see it in the gray pallor of her face. No doubt, he muses, she has to go home and
catch up on chores, but still she is determinedly cheerful.

‘Sleep well, see ya tamarra.’ She wipes his trolley, gathers his tray and bestows a smile on him, before hastening out the door to take her load of dirty crockery to the ward
kitchen.

They work long hours, those hospital staff, he admits, after the night nurse has bought him his theatre gown and switched off the main light. He slumps against his pillows wishing he was at home
in his own bed, in his maroon and brown bedroom surrounded by his books and toby jugs that he has collected since childhood. His bedroom is his haven. He and his wife have their own rooms, at her
suggestion. His snoring is not conducive to a goodnight sleep for her and she has abandoned him for the sanctuary of a duck-egg-blue bedroom with frills and female fripperies.

He feels nervous at the thought of what is to come. Tomorrow will be even worse than today. After his surgery, he will have a catheter. He will have nurses fiddling with his privates. He can
think of no greater indignity. Well, perhaps one. He grimaces, remembering his earlier shame when he lost control of his bladder. It is a long, long time since he has felt such mortification. And
then, unwelcome and repugnant, that memory from his school days roars like a tsunami into his consciousness.

‘No!’ he moans, shaking his head as recollections he would prefer to erase surge back with unwelcome clarity.

‘Spekkie Four Eyes. Spekkie Four Eyes, Mama’s Little Pet,’ the older boys taunt, waving a dead crow at him. They advance towards him and he is terrified
of those hideous, staring black beady eyes, the pointy fearsome beak and clenched talons. He screams and they laugh and come closer, backing him against the grey stone wall that wraps around the
school playground.

Shaking, he feels the wet stream flowing down his leg and his tormentors shout in delight. ‘Pissy Pants! Pissy Pants! Frederick is a Pissy Pants!’ Shame and fear and helpless
fury engulf him and he weeps uncontrollably, sobbing and peeing simultaneously until his persecutors spot his older sister coming and run away, their bellows of derisive laughter deafening his
ears.

‘You have to learn to stand up for yourself, Freddy,’ Alexandra says angrily. ‘Or they will never leave you alone. Stop being a cissy and learn to fight.’

Lying in his hospital bed, the Judge remembers as though it were yesterday. Silent tears slide down his cheeks, as years of suppressed grief and hurt finally have their
say.

It seems as though he has only closed his eyes to sleep when the rattling of the breakfast trollies awaken him. The night nurse, a middle-aged woman called Fran, hurries into the room with an
air of distraction. ‘Frederick, they’ve just rang down from theatre, Number 234’s op has been cancelled so you’re first on the list. Quick now, into your gown,’ she
says authoritatively, pulling up the blinds and flooding the room with the pale lemon rays of the rising sun.

He is too flustered at this unexpected turn of events to chide her for calling him by his first name. He fiddles with his pajama buttons, all fingers and thumbs and as soon as his top is opened,
she is assisting him out of it and shoving his arms into the laundered faded hospital gown.

‘Into your slippers now,’ she urges, checking his wristband and making a note on her file.

‘My slippers?’ He is bemused. ‘Shall I wear them on the trolley?’

‘There’s no trolley, Frederick,’ she says, briskly tying his gown behind his back. ‘Cutbacks. Patients walk to theatre now or go in a wheelchair. You’ll be wheeled
back to your ward, of course, after your surgery. Wrap your dressing gown around you like a good man, and let’s be on our way.’

He is genuinely shocked as he follows her meekly out the door. This is a private hospital; at the very least, he would have expected to be wheeled to his operation by a hospital porter. When he
had his hip replaced some years back, a big burly Kerry chap had whisked him at speed down the corridor, like a rally driver in the grand prix. Perhaps his wife has a point about his expenses. He
feels a brief moment of shame that his social conscience has been dampened down over the years. He knows there are much bigger cutbacks than porters and trollies that will never impact on
him.

The tea lady is pushing her carriage of trays along in the opposite direction and he is, thankfully, distracted. ‘Are ya off!’ she exclaims as though she has known him all his life.
‘I’ll have the tay for you when you get back. Good luck, luv,’ she throws over her shoulder, hurrying past them to start delivering the morning meals.

‘Thank you,’ he murmurs, strangely touched at her good wishes.

He is welcomed kindly to the anteroom adjoining the theatre. Fran helps him divest himself of his dressing gown and pajama bottoms. He feels unusually vulnerable in his gown with the wide gaps
that let in the breeze and display his bare posterior to all and sundry.

‘Up on to the bed here now,’ the theatre nurse instructs, helpfully catching him at his elbow to steady him. Briskly, efficiently, he is eased back against the pillows, swaddled in a
blue blanket, and a cannula is inserted into the back of his hand with a minimum of fuss. All the while, the theatre nurse is doing her checklist, asking him the questions Fran has already
posed.

‘Ready for the off?’ The gowned anesthetist appears through the swinging doors that lead to the theatre. The Judge gets a glimpse of the big arc lights shining down on the operating
table that awaits him and feels a sudden, unanticipated dart of fear.

‘Umm,’ he grunts, swallowing hard.

‘Nothing to worry about. It will be over in no time,’ the anesthetist asserts with faux chumminess.

A hand gently touches his shoulder. It is Fran, looking down at him. ‘You’ll be fine, Frederick,’ she says comfortingly, as the anesthetist inserts a large needle into the
cannula and slowly depresses the plunger.

‘You won’t even count to three,’ she says, smiling. Then blackness envelops him and he slides away.

‘Wake up, Frederick. Wake up now. You’re in the recovery room.’ A voice commands as he struggles to surface through the dark miasma that swirls around his brain.

‘Am I done?’ he mutters, dry mouthed.

‘You are. It all went fine,’ he hears, before he drifts off again with an uncharacteristic sense of well-being, knowing he is in safe hands.

The next time he awakes he is back in his room. The red-haired nurse is smiling down at him, unwrapping the blood pressure cuff from his arm. He has no memory of his journey
from the recovery room.

‘You’re back with us again down on the ward, Mr Harney. You’re doing great,’ she assures him, ‘and your blood pressure is perfect. Your wife rang. She’ll be
in later.’

His eyelids droop again and he surrenders to this rare and pleasurable feeling of being nurtured and taken care of, free from all his responsibilities and the expectations of others.

He is lying against his pillows looking at the apple tree when the tea lady arrives. ‘Ah are ya back in the land of the livin’? She stands at the foot of the bed, studying him.

‘I am, thank God!’ he says, utterly relieved the ordeal is over.

‘And are ya ready for the tay and toast?’

‘I am indeed,’ he assures her. He is hungry and thirsty.

‘It will be like the nectar of the gods,’ she promises.

‘Now luv, get tha’ inta ya,’ she orders ten minutes later, placing a tray of tea and hot buttered toast in front of him. ‘An’ if ya fancy another slice, I’ll
bring it to ya.’

‘That’s very kind of you . . . er . . .’ he peers at her name badge.

‘Janet,’ she supplies, helpfully, pouring his tea for him. ‘In case ya have the collywobbles after the anesthetic and yer hands shake,’ she explains patiently as though
to a child.

‘Thank you, Janet.’ He inclines his head graciously.

‘Yer welcome, luv, enjoy it. I’ll be back for the tray and, if ya want more, I’ll bring it to ya,’ she assures him and then she is gone and he is alone once more. The tea
is indeed the nectar of the gods and he savours it. The toast, oozing butter is as tasty to him at that moment as the finest most succulent red-juiced steak has ever been.

The uncommon sense of wellbeing the Judge experiences lasts until he reluctantly dons his suit and overcoat the following day, to return home to recuperate. Trailing his wife
down the hospital corridor, he is disappointed that neither Kate, his nurse, nor Janet, his tea lady, are on the floor so that he can say his farewells and thank them for their care.

He spends his two weeks of recuperation quietly resting, contemplating how his life will change when he retires. Sometimes his thoughts turn to his brief hospital stay and the events therein.
For the most part, it was a surprisingly enjoyable experience, he admits. Even his episode of shame no longer seems so darkly dire.