Friday Night Live!

Friday Night Live!
(A diary entry for Saturday 29th Sept 2007.)

When you get to a time in your life when you have to rely on other people, that’s when you realize that you can’t rely. Even the ‘caring’ professions don’t care.

A £ sign and that’s all you are. Not a person who feels. Not a used-to-be useful, capable and independent person.

Trapped. Trapped in a chair with wheels. Trapped in a mind in a whirlpool of mixed-up malfunctions. Either would be manageable. Both is a handful! Never knowing whether the next day will be one with the body doing well or the mind. Heaven forbid, both on the same day!

Anyway, Friday night live. Live alright! But not in the party sense. Something came alive. Not invited, but alive. With OCD this shouldn’t be possible. You’ve made your environment. It’s clean. Almost sterile. Goodness knows how much bleach you bought last week. But was enough used? How was it used? Was it used? You know what’ll happen if you start using it. You know what it’s like. Burnt skin. Burnt nostrils. That taste. The non-stop of it. The never feeling enough is enough, to be able to stop.

The food prepared by others comes back to haunt you in the most wicked way possible. The stuff of the worst nightmare, of the worst kind of horror, of the worst revulsion. And at the worst time of night.

As you transfer from bed to chair it happens. Shit happens as they say. If only that were true. If only shit happened. Not tobasco. I’m sure that shouldn’t be red. That shouldn’t be water on fire. Not one lump or two today. And definitely not where you want it! Then the dizziness. Everything’s all black and white and fuzzy. Then for a while it’s gone dark. No vision, just ringing ears. I know the phone isn’t far away. What’s the doctors number? Ah 999.

Two women dressed in green arrive. Yes green. A colour which stirs a similar revulsion to the rest that’s going on. They want to test everything. Test this. Test that. Writing numbers down everywhere. Talking about me. And my numbers. And possibilities. And would they be able to carry me to the ambulance. Why ever not? That’s a job requirement isn’t it? After all, I weigh little more than I did as a child.

Suddenly the numbers are ok. No worries about carrying me anymore. But best have a doctor come and double-check everything especially as it was red. They’re no longer talking about blood and pressure and pulse and numbers. They keep referring to the time of the morning to each other. But quietly. And about shifts. And about ‘The Doc’ being here soon. And soon they left.

So there I am. Alone. Waiting for ‘The Doc’. Wrapped in towels. Oozing. The stench. Oh the stench! Does the body contain that much fluid? And can it afford to lose that much fluid?! And why does ‘hell on earth’ keep coming to mind?

Nevermind, still got the phone. I call the one who ‘cares’, or at least is paid to ‘care’. She’s not due to start for another six hours. But under the circumstances…..

Six hours pass. I’m still alone. ‘The Doc’ has been. I’ve got super pills to ‘stop everything working’. Errmm. What was it that is still working? Can’t remember. Still, at least I won’t have to worry about anything from working again! And I’ve got some nice banana flavoured powder to sup if I could taste it over the stench. Yes the stench of whatever I’m still oozing in. Have I still got any bath towels left that aren’t piled high by the machine?

Mumblings keep going through my head. For a change they’re not my mumblings. ‘waiting time’, ‘better off at home’, ‘call if things don’t get better’. If things don’t get better?! I wonder where the ‘carer’ has got to?

The End.