Gods was a comedian

Gods was a comedian

By John Abbott 

Originally published in CRUSADER (Express Newspapers in-house magazine) DECEMBER 1993

Title:

I had imagined that God was a comedian …

 I struggled to lift my head. My neck and left shoulder muscles, or should I say my left deltoid, latissimus dorsi and pectoralis major strained as I shifted the weight of my torso.

My muscles were very much stronger now, much stronger than at any time earlier in my life.

As you can see, I now know much more about them and their movements than at any time in the past. In fact, if the truth was known, I had to accept that I had become mildly obsessed with my muscles and their parameters; in particular their limitations. 

After any length of time more than a few minutes, while laying on my back, my left arm and its scarred hand had a tendency to, I believe the correct expression is “go to sleep”.

The reasons are simple, but to have it described, it sounds anything but. A touch of thrombophlebitis and, unfortunately, quite a bit of arterial embolism, are the reasons why my arm likes its kip more than the remainder of my body.

As my left arm slowly awoke, I had a strange thought: it seemed to me to be not unlike some awakening dinosaur, almost like my brain had to write a letter to instruct my arm to move.

My arm now began to take part in my actions, my biceps and brachioradialis were both very strong and looked somewhat overlarge as I rotated slightly and bent my elbow. 

From this angle, I must have looked like a linebacker from gridiron football. Of course, that’s complete rubbish. I laughed, the only way you can would get that view , was if you were partially-sighted in one eye and had the other firmly shut. My arm ached, it often did: another problem I had to live with.

As I somehow managed to raise myself into a sitting position, I wobbled like some child’s toy, precariously teetering right, then left. The difference was, I had no central ball-bearing. 

Sweat quickly ran from my temples and I sucked in huge breaths to sustain my effort. “Christ”, it was tough just to get this far. As I allowed my breathing to slow and prepared myself for the next exertion, I gazed down at what little remained of my body. 

I was originally told that I was lucky, well, sod them! I certainly didn’t feel lucky. My left thigh was a rough, short stump, no more than six inches long, my right was slightly longer, ten or eleven inches maybe. I’ll never understand how my right thigh had survived at all, because I had sod-all else on the right side. 

Isn’t it strange how you grow up as a kid and you never imagine a life without anything? God knows, especially without some of the most important parts of your body. I had no right arm, all I had now was a messy reddened hollow where it should have been, the right side of my face was badly scarred and my ear was a misshapen lump.

This had only affected my hearing in a minimal fashion, but it had appeared to produce massive headaches which were way out of all proportion to the actual damage caused.

A couple of minor lumps were missing from my scalp, which seemed, if anything, to make me feel more intelligent... okay, maybe I lied, that’s not true... more introspective, that’s for sure.

My face had been generally scarred, but that didn’t matter much to me. Unfortunately, I had always been in the average class where looks were concerned. You know the type, not exactly Richard Gere, and not quite Quasimodo either.

My right shoulder blade, or scapula, if we’re being clinical, had been slightly shattered, whilst my left was intact.

My left arm looked strong, but the facts were a little different; both it and my hand were pock-marked and scarred. These were the outward signs of my arterial embolism and the thrombophlebitis.

I had already had seven operations on this arm, to recover the tiny splinters and to clear the hundreds of clots, but apparently they could do little more. I had been given some types of drugs to combat this minor problem… sorry, but take it from me, this is bloody minor compared to what I was putting up with in general.

Mostly anticoagulants and thrombolytic agents for which I have long since given up trying to remember all the names, and honestly I no longer give a damn whether they will have a long-term effect.

My torso was the bulk of my remaining body, and that too was tarnished. Nothing too upsetting on the outside, a few gouges here and there, but the major problem was pneumothorax - a lung collapse.

It occurred when a few splintered ribs had pierced my lung, and it had also happened since. Yes, you’ve guessed it, the right side again; it was, er, how can I put it, very badly damaged and of course it made breathing somewhat difficult at times. 

As for my manhood, well I’d always imagined God was a comedian. I had been blown to pieces in such a way that most women wouldn’t even talk to me, let alone look at me, and the only parts of me that hadn’t been touched by this violence were my sex organs. And people had the audacity to say that I was lucky… lucky? 

I was swivelled ever so slowly on my backside, using my arm to steady myself. Christ, my bum was sore, and as I shuffled across the bed at a snail’s pace, I thought what a bloody good job it was that I had a firm mattress, otherwise I would be rocking all over the place.

The remains of yesterday’s petroleum jelly and baby cream on my bottom made this journey a sticky and uncomfortable one. I shunted myself as close to the edge of the bed as I dare, being careful not to tilt my weight too far either forwards or backwards, for both had hazards.

Falling backwards onto the bed meant another struggle with my fast-tiring muscles, and forwards would propel me head-first off the bed with all the inherent risks and no doubt, massive efforts to recover.

I had to swivel again so that my nose was almost touching the bedside cabinet. I gazed hard at the small framed colour photograph on it. The photo was of a poignant moment. 

I didn’t have a chance of a proper honeymoon, so we simply had a couple of days together, then celebrated properly later, on our first holiday.

My wife, Joanne, was quite a catch. As I continued to look at the pictures, I discovered my face had become a mask of tears cascading down my cheeks.

Initially I suppose out of duty, Joanne had stayed around, giving all and sundry the impression of a caring, sensitive, dutiful wife. However, as the enormity of my problems began to dawn upon her, both my physical and mental problems, she simply distanced herself from me, and as my treatment continued and then evolved into something of a slightly difficult order, she became no more than a mere visitor.

My post-traumatic stress or any other fancy name you’d like to call it, was still with me and will stay with me, I dunno… forever?

As I forcibly steered my mind, and then my eyes, away from the pictures, I realised that I still loved her and missed her an awful lot.

It just happened, on that one particular occasion; she didn’t turn up, she didn’t phone either… I never heard from her again.

My visiting nurse, Susan, tried to find out what had happened, but she couldn’t seem to get any information out of the hospital or from the social services. I shouldn’t blame Joanne, I try not to, but Christ, I didn’t have anything else.

The tears were still coming, but I tried to concentrate on the job in hand. I managed to carefully position my body correctly, so that Could reach the drawer in the bedside cabinet.

I stretched out my arm and slowly opened the drawer, visibly shaking as I realised what I was doing.

I thought about all those people who were born like this, all those people who became similar to this because of disease, and most of all, I thought of all the people who continue to fight and carry on, no matter what the obstacles.

Christ, those people must be strong. No slopes for wheelchairs, no special transport or jobs. Joe Public squirming every time they cast a glance in their direction, and so many people treat these disabled like idiots. Christ, it’s so unfair!

I stared, for what seemed like an age, at the contents of the now open drawer. Finally, a subject I could feel comfortable with. I grasped the pistol and felt a pump of adrenalin, and brought it closer to me.

I had been a warrior… a soldier, you see. Queen and country, all that shit! And more.

I’d hammy life blown to pieces for some moist patch of tussock grasses in the South Atlantic. I remembered a friend once saying: “It’s all bullshit, you know that, don’t you?”

I had never realised exactly what he meant until now. I glanced down for the last time at my nakedness and what remained of my life. The preparation had been done yesterday. I had already made sure that a round was in the chamber.

I carefully brought the automatic pistol to my lips, making sure the angle was right for the bullet to enter the roof of my mouth.

My lips were very dry and for the first time ever, I tasted metal. My aching hand flicked the safety catch off, and ever so gently I squeezed the trigger… and became a statistic.

 

JOHN ABBOTT