Such a long time since my blast blog...you all cheer. Sorry, but I feel the need to share the burden of torture... to cleanse myself.
The day after my last posting was the day I thought I would have to leave the country and would be disowned by my parents. Hincksy wanted the computer brought downstairs, so that he could go on the internet. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about the Blog, and check his savings accounts.. that surpisingly, no longer existed. I came to terms with this easily over a bottle or two of Pinot Grigio; but was dragged into reality when the phone rang at the crack of dawn and Dad's dulcet tones pleaded 'Are you coming over?' I dutifully dragged my hungover arse out of bed; left my partner, kids, shopping, cleaning, cooking, washing & ironing, to address the urgency of Hincksy's demands. On my arrival, he was recumbant on the sofa, and the memory of wildrbeast echoed in my thoughts. 'He's making me suffer', I decided, whilst waiting for them to finish their lunch, and chainsmoking in the garden.
Two days later, or so it seemed, Dad was back basking in the sunshine on the sofa. Past the point of caring, I asked, 'So, where shall I put the computer?' With a slightly deceptive (and evil) look in his eye, he told me he didn't think he would bother with the computer, and to leave it where it was. WHATTTTTTT...all that liver damage for nothing? I was confused. This was out of character.
Still with the attention span of gnat, Hincksy was soon on to the next subject. He was concerned that if he fell over at home, he wouldn't be able to get up. Before I could utter the words...'well you should have a go at crawling', he'd thrown himself on the floor and done an hilarious impression of a lame sloth en route to the armchair on the other side of the lounge. When I finally peeled myself off the floor... I congratulated him on his performance. My confidence resumed (foolish), and being easily entertained, I couldn't help but encourage him. However, he was tired and resumed his position on the sofa, ready for a sleep. Mum and I sneeked out to the garden for some rays, but when I peered through the window to check on him, he'd gone. 'Shit...had he rolled off?!' Noooo...just practicing his new found skill of combat crawling. With strict instructions to stay put, we left Hincksy for another few moments, and again he was missing...
'Of F**k'..how naive am I? Dad was sat at the bottom of the stairs, demanding, 'Walk me upstairs to the Mistress (his computer)'. As a dutiful daughter, and a lamb to the slaughter, I did as he asked...and to this day, I don't konw what he's read...and hope that, as he is easily bored he hasn't managed more than a snippet (well it's hardly the Daily Telegraph is it?)...but he's still speaking to me! Maybe he enjoyed it...but it's more likely that he's in regular contact with his solicitor.
In the few short weeks that Hincksy was back on the ward before discharge, he certainly ensured he wouldn't be forgotton (as if he ever would). Taking on the role of vigilante with pride, Dad soon thought he'd found his moment of valour. His mate, in the opposite bed had been in his wheelchair, and had graciously slid out of it onto the floor. In his V8 powered League of Friends chair, Hincksy swerved in to the rescue...but cornered too quickly, caught his wheel in bedsheets and was sent careering onto it's side. Both of them sprawled on the floor, there wasn't a nurse insight. Nevertheless, Hincksy called the nurses on his mobile and asked if 'Somebody would care to pick up the dead bodies off the floor in Bay One'. Unsurprisingly, it seemed that the majority of the nurses from the entire hospital came to witness this spectacle and heckle from the sidelines. Despite the amount of spectators, there was little offers of help. It does make me wonder if my father's name may have been mentioned in the staffroom?!!
Hincksy was itching to arrange a date to come home. After that first day release, hell I still haven't recovered, he returned to the ward a proud man, and just could keep his big trap shut. First he boasted to the Consultant & Sister that he'd done so well, he went up the stairs, and they agreed that he could stay for the whole weekend next time. Then off to the physio dept, were he continued his monologue - god, don't we all know he's great. But his smug look was swiftly removed from his face when the physio bollocked him for being so stupid and cancelled his weekend visit. Oh Shite - after 6 months of dealing with the stroppy toddler, haven't they learnt anything?! Bypassing his usual channels for getting his own way - hunger strike, rudeness, throwing bedpans - he went straight for the jackpot...'Get me the self-discharge form, I'm off!' I can't imagine why Hincksy thought this would work. He's obviously has delusions of grandure and really believes that they wanted him to stay. Needless to say, the nurses left scorch marks in the new floor to get him the said form...but there was one rather large spanner in their works. My Mother. Not usually an outspoken and vocal woman, she responded in a fashion even Janet Street-Porter would be impressed by - well her independance was now truly under threat, and she hadn't got rid of the landscape gardeners yet. Like a diplomat for the UN, she calmed, soothed, bribed and barked until he was safely back tucked into his starched hospital sheets. If that hadn't worked, I'm sure she would have thrown him out of his wheelchair, just to get a few more weeks. The nurses failed to hide their horrified faces behind their plastic pinnies, and skulked back to the nurses station for a tactical review.
The date for Dad's discharge was finally set, Friday 11th May, the day before my Wedding. Great. Talk about a timing - if Hincksy came home, then Mum couldn't have my boys, and I couldn't have a honeymoon. It never crossed my mind - honest. (Actually managed to make alternative arrangements, and had a fab time in Barcelona, but that doesn't make for good reading!)Dad was that desperate that nothing went wrong, he refused to go for physio for a couple of days in case he fell over and jeopardised the plans. Mum gamefully asked if he was looking forward to coming home. I can't believe that 30 years of marriage to Hincksy has taught her nothing about the miserable old git. He reposded with his usual enthusiasm, 'Well it's fking boring here, and it'll be fking boring at home!' Mum was quick to cancel the 'welcome home' banner and reception party...nothing had changed.
On the Tuesday before discharge, he finally agreed to go the torture chamber - he's still wearing steel toe-capped boots. And within an hour I had a call from the ward sister to say she was very sorry, but Dad was gravely ill, having collapsed in the physio dept, and was being worked on by the resuscitation team. (We're not sniggering now!). By the time I arrived at the ward, in a very unattractive sweat and with my new acrylic wedding nails, bitten to the bed (waste of money)...he looked ok. He hadn't died, or had another stroke...just a funny turn that seemed to provoke a gross over-reaction by the nurses. Maybe they really did care...or maybe they thought that they would be stuck with him a bit longer. Nevertheless they saw a window of opportunity, and transferred him to the Medical Emergency Unit with private hospital timing. Within half an hour of arriving on the unit, surrounded by very, very poorly patients, Dad was zooming in and out of the sluice collecting an arsenal of urinals ('well the nurses might be too busy to bring me one').
Whilst waiting for the doctors, I popped back to ward to pick up a couple of essentials for Dad for overnight, only to be directed into the sister's office. I was met, by the door barely able to open, and the entire Hincks Command HQ crammed into the room. It appeared to have all been been hastily stuffed into plastic bags and amblazened 'Patient Property'. How the f**k was I supposed to get his lot to the other side of the hospital...I'm a Hincks, there's always a way! Impressively, Dad was seen, assessed, monitored, reviewed and returned to the ward in record time - his reputation had obviously preceded him and they wanted rid. I assume Bersham Ward was too overwhelmed for words at Hincksy's hasty return....
Dad is now home for good. Mum isn't looking as cheerful these days. I'm gradually reducing my Job Descriptions. All getting back to some normality really. But then I started to think....at what point has my life been normal? Nice - yes, but normal....no. At the very least I feel another blog coming on, or maybe a book! I'm out of the Will, so who gives a F**k!
(By the way...The wedding went well (except my sister stole the limelight when she collapsed); Dad has a carer (but he says her tits aren't big enough) & Mum....Well, Mum has rather an unhealthy interest in Shirley Valentine.
Health & Happiness to All Who Read,
Regards Vick X