Only When I Laugh


The end of day three after my stroke. Or is it day four ? Who can remember ? All I know is this illness stuff is not all it’s cracked up to be.

I’ve already had a row with a doctor over my attitude (me!), been told to get off my blackberry (good luck with that one then) and almost be judged ‘nil by mouth’ twice (again, me!).

I’ve come to the very quick decision that I’m rubbish at being a patient, but then again who is any good at it ? So I’ve decided to moan and bear it and make the worst of it. For starters, blogging on a phone is a pain in the arse as I can’t type or spell properly in the first place let alone on this thing so apologies for the worse than usual grammar.

(I pause here to take in the delicate aroma of the bed next to me being cleaned by the nurse after it’s 87 year old occupant-a serial solier- relieved himself all over it. Sorry, what’s that ? No, no trifle for me thanks all the same).

I digress.

Those who know me will recognise my symptoms: I cannot move my head about, and have a constant dreadful headache. I have slighlty slury speech, a scary stare and I cannot walk around unaided. However I now do all this all day, not just before 11pm. So there’s no need to wait til pubs chuck out to see me in my natural state. I’m in constant pain, knackered all the time and terrified I’ll stay like this forever. But I know I’ve been lucky: It’s not as if I’m like poor old sods in my ward, lost limbs or woken up Welsh or anything.

The Incumbent has been truly terrific: feeding me in my prone position with paracetamol and choccie biccies, informing all and sundry of my plight and drawing up a visitors list. Only the nearest and richest get into see me. Forget a bunch of grapes and a get well soon card. You wanna see me? You’ll need a wad of cash, a litre of gin and some large-breasted physio with you (all the better if she’s female).

Having said that, thanks go to my old mates of The Still Thoroughly Decent American Press who had flowers delivered this afternoon, beautiful and welcome that they are, and Steve the Sculptor who brilliantly brought me hard boiled eggs and nuts (and if you don’t understand that you shouldn’t be reading this).

I’ve been feeding from the Hallal menu, it being the only place around here you can get a curry: Chicken Korma, Chicken Byriani and a Lamb with Lentils number have all been eaten by me on my back with plenty of relish but not the required outcome. On my notes beside my bed it reads “B/M: no”. This is nearly day four of no B/M and it’s starting to make tears well up in my eyes. I have tended to have a b/m 4 or 5 times a day, and have so ever since I was 16 yrs old. Often against my will.

What is happening to me? I shall let you know how I get on. Though you’ll probably hear it or smell it yourself.

Just after you start your trifle.

Enjoy your tea.

Luv u all xx

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12 thoughts on “Only When I Laugh

  1. How wonderful to hear you’re back to your old self–a bleedin’ old miseryguts! Take it lying down, obey the Incumbent, get better soon and let us know when the coast is clear.
    Love Mick and Maureen

    • Not sure what the form is. I suspect any space left is free after 1830 but will confirm with The Incumbent tomorrow if u’d like ?

  2. Good to know that despite all there is nothing that can break your spirit and wicked sense of humour πŸ˜‰
    sending you very best wishes

  3. How did I know you wouldn’t take the “I’m just glad to be alive” route.
    “Nurse…..NURSE….!! My cups half empty!!”
    πŸ™‚

  4. Look at the upside: at least when people point out how full of shit you are, you can assume they’re referring to your body’s new determination to forever withhold all mookie-stinks, not accurately describing your, you know, like, character.
    Take solace in the knowledge that when I first was told “Bealing’s in hospital for a stroke”, I thought you’d gone in (again) to become an industrial-volume sperm donor. The “being ill” thing just ain’t you the way that other thing is. You’ll repel this not-well thing faster than Teflon slicked up with Rebekah Brooks’ intimate dead fish smell.

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