Hiatus

In this hiatus or little gap between the curtains, as Brock put it, when there’s no prisoner, police and very little publisher (applying to another printer) I’m fast physically deteriorating.  I was wakened by a pain in my right hand I had to find a way to put that eased the strain to let me sleep again.  In cutting food it spasmed into painful rigor that did subside.  There’s a swelling on the back and residual feeling there but the sharpest pain is in the right side of the wrist, not at the thumb joint.  The arthritis has spread.  When I held the remote and used the middle finger to press the radio on, pain shot along that finger to the back of the hand which froze.  I have no intention of not recording my descent into debility.  In the night was a pain in my right kneecap I had to find a way to stretch my leg to overcome though during the day there seemed no problem until today when there was a feeling on the right of the cap where the pain had been.  I’m glad I had the prescience to go dancing all night with Adrian.  These symptoms of course are more portentous than the deformity of my other kneecap I saw first in the shower because I’d felt nothing and which therefore panicked me into demanding to see the doctor, a demand denied.  I had to walk in a hospital and wait one and a half hours to have it diagnosed as bursitis, something I’d never before had in all of seventy-five years.  The recommended treatment of frozen peas and tubigrip hasn’t diminished the protruding cushion by a millimetre. 

 

Refusing to make an appointment by phone, I made one for the next week, near enough three weeks since the bursitis the doctor paid little attention to, confirming the treatment however.  He wanted to have the hand x-rayed before concluding irremediable degeneracy.  The nurse failed to find blood for an inflammatory test, didn’t like the look of the veins in the other arm which are usually outstanding and the envy of addicts, trying the first again with an unblocked needle, blood flowing into five vials.  In a bus after hospital I watched a green insect fail to climb onto the hood fur of a woman, trying her sleeve twice before flying to the window she’d opened on entry.  The woman of the couple replacing her pointed to the bug and the man lifted it with a bag and waved it out the window. 

 

I’m wakened in agony by the hand which, no more than the other, can fist in the morning but gives no pain during the day. 

 

I’m not blogging, having nothing to blog about.  Having no blog to print out, I’m not going to the writing group either.  I am taking part in a discussion online whether rationality leads to atheism where no one else has any personal spiritual experience but refers to books and gives links to the opinions of others who’ve none either. 

 

No pain to keep wakening me and my stiff hands unstiffen sooner in the morning and are less prone to numbness.  I’m still doing Diana who’s recognised it’s herself telling her what to do and that her bogeyman’s a fiction, keeping my hand in, still doing my job of correcting the faults of interesting cases while increasingly faulty myself.  If she’s not very careful she’ll die sane. 

 

Caught out by my cd holder which doesn’t always come fully out but retracts, at the which my hand automatically, rapidly withdrew into agony, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!  Bastard!” 

 

The nurse said I’d broken my wrist and the arthritis was gathering round the chip of bone.  I could’ve broken bone without being aware I had.  I asked why I couldn’t make fists in the morning and why when my fingers did loosen they still felt numbish.  The synovial fluid wasn’t lubricating the tendon sheaths.  The hospital would be making an appointment for me to have an ultrasound for the soft tissue I was also unaware of having injured. 

 

When I knelt, I needed levers, pulleys and a crane to get up off my knees again. 

More than three months after the last I saw of him, the police phoned to say the prisoner was caught, in Wandsworth, stopped over nothing very much but recognised, and was in closed prison. Next day I missed a phone call from an unavailable no. Police nos are restricted, prison unavailable. Nothing since.

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About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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