THE aide I like least of all bustled up to my very unfinished tray. She does a fine line in heavy sighs and eye rolls – her grumpy cat’s face; what I can see of it – jowelling into displeasure.
Her eyes fixed on my half-litre bottle of water and she pounced. "Have you drunk today?" "Yes." "How many glasses?" "I don’t know. I’m drinking from the bottle" "How many bottles?"
Oh for God’s sake. There is no point in lying for everything I do or say is noted down and always used against me. "Only one bottle but I’ve also had all the disgusting juices you insist on."
She’s already walking away and I’ll pay for it later when she manhandles me into bed.
They are mainly obsessed by my food intake to build up my muscles. Breakfast is coffee au lait, two slices of bread slathered with butter and jam and a 400-calorie pure sugar nutri-drink. Lunch can be fatty sliced sausage, meat with pasta or thickly sauced vegetables – aubergine a favourite – cheese and a compote or yoghurt, maybe with fresh fruit. I usually eat most of the main course but rarely the other bits. I totally ignore the four chunks of bread.
In the afternoon I have to drink another 400 calorie drink but refuse the cake.
Two hours later the final meal of the day arrives. I have bargained it down to a small slice of cheese and a yoghurt or over-sweetened pot of rice. I ignore the four slices of bread.
Oh, I forgot there is soup at both meals.
Every couple of days the dietician arrives, clipboard in hand listing all that has passed my lips. I have given up asking how so much fatty, sugary foods can possibly be balanced or healthy; given up asking to have a plain tomato or a boiled egg – even a salad. You know it’s bad when I’m asking for a bloody salad.
No, I must be built up through a menu of everything the medical profession has been telling us not to eat or drink for years. But what do I know? I’m not French and everyone knows only the French have an expertise in culinary matters from A to Z, openly sneering at any prowess tentatively claimed by others.
So, there is little point in arguing with a superior force who will just smile condescendingly with pity in their eyes when one advances one’s own suggestions and thoughts.
Like the doctor who’s just been into my room to discuss the "incident" of this afternoon. Another bout of diarrhoea allied to an overwhelming desire to vomit left me a prisoner of the commode just when I thought I’d escaped it.
Swirling in my taste buds the lunch I’d eaten well. Forgive me if I don’t recount what it was in case it reappears. It was this and all the other excess too-rich meals that had erupted, I felt.
I fear with his sweet manner and nods of agreement he is the other kind of French medic – who leaves you feeling comforted and vindicated until you wake up on an operating table the next day with many of your organs missing.
Anyway, he checked my heart, said fine and seemed to agree with me on everything and went off with one of those childish waves where the fingers move one after the other.
Actually, he’d said nothing and I need to leave instructions with the nurses that no experimentation is to be conducted on my already maimed body.
After this Madame the bitch aide landed a tray laden with sugary delights and …..cheese. My tender stomach rose up in nauseous greeting. No thanks, I said sweetly. Don’t think that’s a good idea.
Her puzzled eyes said she had no idea what I meant. I couldn’t be bothered explaining and simply and firmly said no….thank you.
Oh God what sweet revenge is she plotting tonight; she did fling me into bed as expected last night so tonight could be the unfortunate eye-glinting, high speed off balance, reverse Cresta Run when she yanks me to the top of the bed.
I think I’ll warn her – with great concern – to take it gently as I’d hate to vomit over her with no warning.
So now you’re up to date with all episodes so far.
Still to come is the outcome of Miriam’s smuggling trip which will be known tomorrow. Today she handed in a box of sweets well sealed with le Scotch tape. They are in 24-hour quarantine and should be given to me unopened in the afternoon.
I hope so for ten small cartons of nicotine cartouches – the delivery system, man, are planted amidst the bon-bons and without their calming influence Madame the bitch aide will sleep with her trays in the sluice.
So, there we are, a few days in the rooms of broken spirits and mending bones where cries of pain are heard from well-sealed rooms, the occupants never seen; familiarity only in the different timbres of pain chant.
I’m hoping I haven’t checked into the Hotel California.
P.S She’s just put me to bed and been really nice. But then so was I. Two to tango? Feel a shit now.
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