Hospital Story: Part Two
In my teens and twenties, I experienced much mental anguish trying to make sense of the world and discover the meaning of life. None of the religions I studied could provide a satisfactory answer to the question, what is the purpose of my existence? All around me I saw suffering, cruelty, stupidity and absurdity. It was in the hope of discovering the elusive secret I was searching for that I chose to make a close examination of sickness, dying and death. When, after three years of working as a hospital orderly I was not rewarded with a mind-blowing revelation, I determined that, to give significance to this interlude in my life story, I would one day incorporate it into a larger narrative.
In The Life of Henry Fuckit, however, Henry’s motives were different to mine. I made him complicit in a murder that had gone undetected. Tormented by feelings of guilt, he determined to atone for his crime by sentencing himself to three years of community service as a hospital porter. This meant that when applying for this lowly position he would have to pretend to be poorly educated.
Matron Sharp was a small to medium sized woman in her late fifties. She looked very neat in her pale blue uniform, her figure was still trim, and her grey hair was cut short in the style of a pageboy. Petite. At some earlier stage she had probably been considered petite. Henry didn't take much notice of her facial characteristics once he had met her gaze. Her grey eyes were as independent and steady as twin gyroscopes, and he felt the urge to tilt his head back and expose his jugular to her. Maybe such a gesture of submission would elicit an atavistic response inhibiting her from tearing him to pieces with her mind and her tongue.
'So, you want me to give you a job as a porter, do you?' Her voice was calm and level, modulated ever so close to flat and bored. The eyes, which for close on forty years had been examining human reactions to physical and mental stress, now dispassionately awaited his reply.
'Yes, Matron.' He must be careful what he said. 'I was hoping there would be an opening for me.' He needed to create the impression of dim-witted honesty. 'I was an assistant storeman at Simonstown Dockyard, but the work was too difficult for me.' He tried to look gormless by letting his mouth fall open. 'I never had any form… um … I never went to a proper school, but I can read and write and do some arithmetic.' What was that flicker of something? Surely not amusement. 'My arms and legs are strong and I've got no back trouble, so I'm sure I'd be good at lifting patients and pushing them in wheelchairs and on trolleys.' What else could he offer? "I'm also willing to learn how to shave the body hair of male patients prior to sur… before they have their operations.' F#ck, she might think he was a pervert. 'Only if it's required of me, of course. And I live in Woodstock, you know.' He imparted this last piece of information because he understood this menial post of hospital porter to be one of those situations in South Africa reserved for poor whites - a form of sheltered employment. 'But I am of sober habits and God-fearing. Very God-fearing.' Should he chance a biblical reference or two? What the hell. 'Yes, it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God. For even though the gate is straight and narrow is the way which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it, happy is the man who fears the Lord and is only too willing to follow His orders.' Okay, don't overdo it, or she'll get suspicious. Had her expression hardened somewhat, become more stony? Maybe she thought this religious bullsh#t was insincere, which, of course, it was. 'I would like to do a job where I can help people, you know. When I was a little boy, I wanted to be a doctor but I'm not clever enough for that.' Pathetic. And still no response. What did she expect from him? 'I don't have a criminal record or anything, Matron.' Not that it mattered. 'But I have had some troubles in my life.' Was she interested? Now he was really taking a chance. 'And as it says in the Good Book, 'When the wicked man turned away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.' Finally! A sign of exasperation?
"The Bible also says 'The mouth of a fool poureth out foolishness.'"
'That's from Proverbs, isn't it?' The porter had been right - she had seen through him and he was f#cked in his m#er. Damn! 'There's truth in it, I suppose. Some of us can't help our foolishness. We're not all blessed with wisdom. And yet, as Ecclesiastes points out, although wisdom excelleth folly, and the wise man's eyes are in his head and the fool walketh in darkness, one event happeneth to them all. In short: How dieth the wise man? Answer: As the fool. All is vanity. Anyway.' And he fell silent, watching her, waiting for her to tell him to get out of her office. They regarded each other, she behind her desk, he standing before her. La femme regarde moi. Interesting woman, this. Must have been attractive when she was young. No rings on her fingers. Bound to be a story in her past explaining her dedication, accounting for the detachment in her eyes. Hey, was that surprise? A bit of colour in her cheeks. Good God, she's just realised I'm checking her out the way she's checking me out. Now I'm in for it.
'You're familiar with the term 'self-immolation'?' A trap. He couldn't lie to her. But how many hospital porters in the English-speaking world could reply in the affirmative? 'I know the meaning of it.' His voice was decidedly sulky. And why self-immolation? Shit, it wasn't possible. She had guessed his true intention in seeking such employment. A bloody mind-reader.
'Alright, you can start on Monday.' Again his mouth fell open, this time unintentionally. 'But not as a porter. You'd be of more use to me as an orderly. Do you know what an orderly does?'
'A white-clad goon who assists the nurses in the ward?'
'The orderly can be a most effective member of the nursing team. He walks in the shadow of the nurse, admittedly, but he is an integral part of the nursing process. A porter operates on the periphery, having only minimal contact with the patient and performing a very limited function. By contrast, the orderly is expected to form a relationship with the patient which is both caring and thoughtful. Through empathy he is able to put himself into the patient's psychological frame of reference and thereby understand and predict that person's feelings, thoughts and actions. Like a nurse, an orderly develops skills to alleviate suffering and cure ill-health. Or ensure a peaceful death. People have to be seen as biological, psychological and social beings. Therapeutic intervention has to be holistic, and take into account the biopsychosocial needs of a patient.' Biopsychosocial! Jesus, that's a mouthful. She certainly wasn't talking down to him. Getting a bit carried away.
'Yes, I see, Matron. But all that sounds rather theoretical. What would I actually have to do?'
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