Laughter is the Best Medicine

Laughter is the Best Medicine

Ping pong!!
The front door bell chimes. My wife, Dotty clatters along the tiled floor of the passage in her wooden Scholls and answers it. I’m sitting on the settee in the lounge, nursing my enlarged prostrate not literally of course - metaphorically. In truth I am just relaxing and hoping my prostate is going to behave itself..
Click! Dotty has released the door catch.
“Uh! It’s you, Cyril,” she grunts. “What trouble have you brought this tme?”
“Now, now, no need for that dear sister in law. I mean you no harm. Where is he?”
His voice drifts into the lounge.
“Oh bugger, it’s our Rathead,” I mutter.
Rathead is Cyril’s nickname. Dad renamed him Rathead on account of his annoying ability, like the common rat to upset people simply by making an appearance.
Nicknames, I ask you? They can be quite cruel, particularly if they are founded in sarcasm and my dad was quite good at sarcasm .He called me Dickie Beanpole because I was tall and thin. My sister was known as Shirley Pimple. You can figure that one out for yourself.
“Eh up our kid!” says Rathead bouncing into the lounge.
Behind him Dotty clatters back along the passage into the kitchen.
“It’s me  seventieth birthday, who’d ‘a thought it?” he says.
“Yes, who’d a thought it?” I repeat with little enthusiasm.
He sits down on the edge of an armchair and bends towards me as if to share a confidence.
“I’m seventy” he says in a false whisper, reinforcing the pseudo air of confidentiality with an exaggerated wink.
“I know, I know” I say. “There’s a card with some cash in i for yout on the mantelpiece. Spend it on something worthwhile”
He springs to his feet, takes the envelope, opens it and counts the cash,
“A pound for each year, thee’t a generous brother. Does she know?” he says,
pointing with his thumb towards the kitchen.
“Dotty knows. We don’t have secrets.”
“Thanks kidder,” he says and glances at the card. “Thanks Dotty,” he shouts down the passage.
You can feel the cold of Dotty's silence.
He turns back to me and nods towards my groin.
“How is it?”
“I take my pills, I stick to my diet and I watch my fluid intake. That’s it. Life is pretty much as normal.
Peeing can be a bit of a problem but I put up with that.”
“Well, if life is pretty much as normal why don’t you come down to the Colliers’ with me for a nice cool pint and a slice of the abnormal? It’ll be my treat,” he says waving the notes.
The contradiction of him treating me with what was my money makes me laugh out loud.
“That’s a yes then,” he says
“No it isn’t.” I react with alarm bordering on panic. Already temptation has me in its grip.
“Steady, steady a couple of cold pints and a game of crib will settle your nerves. It’ll be just like the old days after a shift down the pit.”
“You’ve never done a shift down the pit. You’ve spent more of your life out of work than in it.”
“No, I meant you. It’ll be like the old days for you. Effing Reg and Bastard Brian will be there. Come on we need you for a’ four hander.’

Suddenly, without the slightest warning I am possessed. I am under the spell of
‘The Pleasure Seeking Fairy’. It takepossesion of my brain. I put on my shoes and my jacket and I step through the front door. I do it in defiance of common sense and without any regard for self
preservation.
I shout down the passage to let Dotty know that I am going out. I hear the dish whistle down the passage and hit the hard floor. A string of expletives follow as I click the catch. The door
shuts safely behind me.
Like the parachutist who has just stepped out of his plane I know that even if I want to it’s too late to
change my mind. At this point it is clear to me that the events of this day are unfolding into an exposition of the fact that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
By 9 o’clock a couple of pints have turned into seven. I am careering down that infamous
slippery slope. Instinct tells me that my entry into Hades is bound to happen shortly.
Dotty appears in the doorway of the Collier’s.
When I see her a supercilious grin spreads across my face. We make eye contact. The look in Dotty’s eyes clearly says that I am persona non grata.
Rathead, my co-conspirator and until now jovial leader in this abandonment of responsibility vanishes. Without back up I have no spine. I leave the Collier’s meekly.
In the car with Dotty, I make a determined attempt to turn my incoherent babble
into sensible speech. It doesn’t work and I slip back into an alcoholic stupor.

 I awake in the spare bedroom with a terrific burning sensation in my lower abdomen. My bladder is bursting. The pain is too severe to allow me to stand and so I roll out of bed and crawl to the toilet. There I sit and wait – and wait – and wait. Not even the slightest dribble appears. In desperation I call for Dotty. She appears, mutters the word ‘fool’ and then disappears. After what seems like ages she comes back again fully dressed; carrying my dressing gown and slippers. She makes me wear an incontinence pad 'just in case’. Oh the indignity!!

Dotty leads me down the stairs and out through the front door. Gingerly I ease myself into the car passenger seat.

It’s difficult to see through the alcoholic haze and past the pain. I am losing track of things. We arrive at A and E. I shuffle into a wheelchair. Dotty discusses my case with the triage nurse. Meanwhile. I feel that I'm drowning in my own urine. I squirm, seeking whatever temporary relief I can find.
Surprisingly soon I am on a bed waiting for a doctor. I had hoped giving Dotty the chance to 'offload' about my condition and my present state to the triage nurse might have tapped into some hidden mothering sympathy – it hasn’t. The pain is getting worse. My spirits begin to sink. I badly need a pee and then some comfort and support. Dotty maintains her silence.The the situation gets even worse;- as the doctor walks in - Dotty walks out! I am left to struggle with the pain and at the same time gather myself sufficiently together to answer the doctor’s questions. .
A rather pretty young nurse arrives. Outwardly I smile, inwardly I groan because I know that some kind of embarrassing event is bound to happen shortly.
“This is Philomena from the Philippines,” says the doctor with a chuckle.
The phrase “And I’m Doctor Drain from Droitwich” crosses my mind but I say ‘nowt’.

Within a few minutes the incontinence pad is in the bin, my clothes are piled neatly on the chair and I’ve been dressed quickly and discretely in a paper gown. All thanks to nurse Philomena. She is a
marvel.

A bit of lifting, poking and prodding and the doctor completes his examination. He goes to fetch a catheter; Philomena and I are talking about my marriage. I’m really missing Dotty. Usually she’s so
fussy and supportive when I’m ill. My bravado has deserted me. I’m crumbling.
The curtain lifts, the doctor enters. Philomena rolls back my gown. I am exposed to the world. Oh the ignominy and shame.
Where’s Dotty to hold my hand.
The doctor fits the catheter. It’s a painful process. Philomena smiles prettily. Under different
circumstances this would be a pleasant distraction but not now. Where is Dotty?

The draining begins and the relief slowly builds. But it’s not enough to compensate for Dotty’s absence. She’s been gone for what seems ike a couple of hours and I’m worried. Is this a defining moment? Has she finally had enough? My mind begins to examine a range of scenarios. I swear to myself that I will never be so stupid again no matter what the temptation.
Philomena appears at regular intervals to empty the bag.
“How much do you think has drained?” I ask.
“About three pints,” she replies.
From behind the curtain a voice calls. “So there’s only another four pints to go
then?”
It’s Dotty. She steps in. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” She says.
I can’t speak. My supercilious grin is back. She holds my hand and kisses my forehead.
My relief is intense and causes a shudder to run through my body.
Philomena smiles and disappears.
Dotty lifts up my paper gown to examine the doctor’s work.
“Yoo-whoo! Dickie Beansprout,” she shouts up the gown and waits as if for an echo.
“Dickie Beanpole,” I say stuffily correcting her.
She takes another peep.
“Beansprout!” she insists shaking her head.

I surrender..

We giggle like kids.