I have located myself on the ground floor of the Guy’s Cancer Centre, next to the main hospital. There is a café. People are sitting around waiting for appointments, accompanying family members, staff members are having lunch, or perhaps people are just dotted around biding their time, like I am. But I guess not a lot of people may do that. I hope not. Kamalashila’s bowels are not showing any movement, in spite of attempts. It is complicated, with a big tumour there responding to the chemo, fluids, and masses of digested food.
This morning after feeling frustrated with breakfast offerings that do not contain fibre, he was adamant he needed beans. He asked for beans. Demanded beans. But of course he didn’t get anywhere. All food is standardised at the hospital. I saw somebody posting a pic of being in a German hospital and I saw fresh vegetables, salad, a healthy slice of bread. That is not how it is here. Food has been a big problem ever since KS became ill, and it is at its worst when he is in hospital. Though he had a week or so in the Summer when all seems to be going well on the food front. But this morning he was ravenous and he knew he needed to help his body with fibre. So after the failed attempt in-house, his next attempt was me. ‘Why a whole hour?’, he texts me. This is one of the texts that have come across clearly. The opioid pain killers are making it hard for him to be present and coherent at times. He has asked for them to be reduced. He has less pain this morning. I was so glad to hear it. Pain is a weird thing. And medicines build up. It is hard to get it right.
Anyway, back to the beans. Why did I need an hour to get there? It was mid morning, but I needed to have breakfast, hang up the washing, put some clothes on, and then heat up the beans, put them in a thermos, pack my bag and get on the bus. This all happened. Having delivered the beans, and watching him forcing himself to eat them, I could only stay for 10 minutes, as it was outside of visiting hours. So now I am here. Waiting for the visiting hours to commence.
Apart from a wobbly table, all is very well here, with me. With KS not so much. There seems to be another infection brewing and fluids are not going to the places they are supposed to go to. Luckily it is Monday. The PIIC line is being cleaned, or doctored, or repaired. This will make it easier to get bloods. The doctor has had to take some from his knuckle, which is not a great place. As I am sitting here with my elbows leaning on the wobbly table, my chin leaning on the palms of my hands, I just know this is life happening. It is no use not wanting it. It will come. It is here. It is moving. My prayer is now for the bowel to do the same. To give in and let go.
I came across this fence yesterday when I walked to the hospital (Bath Terrace, Southwark) and recognised it as recycled WW2 stretchers.