Anecdote

LEGACY

/ jonathanrobb / 7 Comments

Today my family and I celebrated my grandfather’s ninetieth birthday. As part of the event each member of the family – children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren – all contributed a few pages of writing detailing their own accomplishments in life and memories they had of Frank Robb. The book that was eventually collated, in no small effort by my eldest uncle, Chris, who harvested well over fifty entries, stands as a legacy of not only my grandfather’s life but of all the lives he went on to father. In a sense, each one our accomplishments are also his, for without him the beautiful collection of talented, kind and incredible people who are my family wouldn’t exist.

For this post I’ve decided to put up my contribution to Grandpa’s book. For those reading who aren’t family, some of the following may be obscure references to people you don’t know, but if you’re happy to preserver let me just state one pertinent detail: I have a twin brother named Damian.

The rest I think you can figure out yourselves.

—

MY first encounter with Grandpa has, regrettably, been forgotten. I was three months old and it was just after my family’s departure from Launceston, Tasmania. My perpetually generous grandparents had agreed to temporarily house the in-transit Robbs, and brave a household that contained four children under four.

Although I don’t remember the first time Grandpa picked me up and held me in his arms, that first contact, I appreciate the effort involved in providing a roof over my young head. I’ve since wondered, as he cradled me, if he had any clue whether it was me or Damian he was holding.

IT was in Barry Street, Preston, that I have my first memory of Grandpa. I remember waking under the layers of sheets and blankets in a foreign bedroom, seeing my brother in a bed opposite me, and creeping out of the room into the sun-splashed bedroom of my grandparents. Grandma would usually see me first as I stood unsure in the doorway and call out a greeting, giving me the invitation I was waiting for. I would crawl over the bed and wiggle down between my grandparents, and Grandpa would wrap an arm around me. I remember the weight from the layers of coverings and the warm clean smell of that bed. I felt safe, and happy, and Grandpa would turn his head, focusing on my face, a smile in his eyes, and ask, “Now, which one are you? Damian?”

THE next memory I can conjure is in the early Traralgon days. These were the days of the mazda van, of a crowd of cousins playing in and around the almost clean pool, of food in huge platefuls emerging from the kitchen, where a collection of aunties and uncles laughed and talked, to be taken to the carport where Dad was preparing the perfect coals for a barbeque. These were the days of long weekends and bonfires.

I can remember the frenetic pre-cleaning of the house and then the silence before the storm as we waited for our family to arrive. Then that first car would appear, its white hood emerging from the head of the driveway, with Grandpa behind the wheel. The bubble of anticipation would burst inside my stomach, sending waves of excited energy through my limbs, because it meant the holiday had begun. Next would follow the cries of happiness and hellos, the procession of kisses and hugs, with Grandpa stopping amongst the activity to hold me at arms length, study me, and ask, “Damian?”

MY teenage memories are of a plethora of Robb-Family gatherings, of the Stewart’s backyard, the Donahoo’s house, and the Benalla-Robb’s shed, of Christmases, birthdays, and twenty-firsts. Of speeches (always peppered with a call-out from Lindsay), of food and dancing, and talking and laughter.

And always amongst the mass of family and the thrum of conversation I could be sure to find the matriarch and patriarch in the thick of it, the foundations stones that had brought us and held us all together. Grandpa would recite stories with nods and smiles from those who had heard them multiple times before, and keen interest in the faces of those first-timers, myself often among them. There was always a hand shake and a hug, a quick query to determine who he was talking to, “Don’t tell me. It’s Damian?”, and I was folded once again into the festivities and family.

AS I moved into working life as a nurse and relocated to Brunswick West and the charm of McLean Street, my memories of Grandpa moved as well to Latrobe Village, which the Robbs quickly infiltrated with our large numbers and animated chatter. The memory that stands out most of the Village actually occurred towards the end of my high-school days. We had congregated in the function centre to celebrate Grandpa’s eightieth and I, against warnings from my mother, had consumed too much alcohol at the after-Deb party I had attended the night before. Alcohol poisoning would later be used to describe my state, and while I, regrettably, was in no form to interact with Grandpa that day (as my sister who found me spread-eagled on the lawn bowl’s field can attest) I was led to his bed where I was left to sleep it off.

Ironic that after all those years I found myself back in the bed of my grandparents, and more so, that the warmth, weight, and cleanliness of those blankets still offered the comfort and safety that they had ten years before.

FINALLY I’ve arrived at the most current stage of my life and the most recent memories of Grandpa. I live in Ardeer, and work as a district nurse across the North-West of Melbourne. My work as a nurse has given me a particular insight, and bred a distinct admiration, for the endurance and energy my grandfather continues to display. At an age where many of his contemporaries settle into a sedate and unchanging lifestyle, bowed by their weariness and ailments, Grandpa continues to make the most from his life, refusing to let age be an excuse, even to the point of having a knee replacement in his late eighties. His love for life and family act as a guide and a benchmark, and are attributes I would be lucky to emulate in my life.

THIS book has been made to commemorate ninety years of living. From the stories he shares, from his collection of memoirs, and from the sheer scope of his progeny, it seems to me that’s exactly what Grandpa has been doing.

And, thanks to him, so are all of us.

AND because I wouldn’t exist without Grandpa, I guess I can overlook his mistaking me for Damian.

ANGRY MAN

/ jonathanrobb / 4 Comments

I’m screaming at her and my voice is hoarse with spat words.

An angry man. I never thought I’d grow up to be an angry man. I was a meek child. I would hunch as I was dressed down by my father. I was not a screamer or a rager. I would sit there, cowed, and sob once it was done.

I stop, and she’s looking at me with the flat eyes of a stranger. I’m breathing heavily and I realise that my hands are shaking, and I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.

—

I wrote this about a year ago, but only rediscovered it a few days ago. I was clicking through my folder of writing and by chance opened the document that had this small snapshot. On reading it I was both satisfied and frightened by how accurately this tiny sliver of writing portrayed how I had felt.

I remember I wasn’t angry at the time of writing. I was on that post-fight plateau where all emotions are muted. Numbed. I no longer cared about achieving happiness. I was in a space where I was so worn out it was a relief to give up and resign myself to the knowledge that I could not make things better.

The scene described had taken place a few hours beforehand. In the midst and fury of an argument I’d had a horrible insight into my own behaviour. It had been like stepping to the side and watching as a third-party, and discovering that scarlet hiss of anger in my features. It reminded me of times I’d seen couples fighting in public and wondering how they could have so little self-control and such little respect for one another. Only this time I was the embarrassment. I was the infant throwing a tantrum, the man not in control of himself.

It’s the final line of the piece that resonates strongest. I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I was so far beyond my threshold of patience and unhappiness that I was lost. I had reverted to the animal instinct of screaming and lashing out in frustration. All the moral codes I thought I followed, all the constraints I put upon myself and proudly thought I upheld had disintegrated under my torrent of anger. I felt helpless. I felt all my happiness and effort slipping away over some triviality, and had no way of stopping it. I felt encased and my battering only served to solidify the barrier around me.

These are not efforts at justifying my behaviour, only reflections on how I had come to a place where I had lost myself.

I don’t like feeling out of control. It’s a point of pride that I can keep my composure, that I can rationalise any heightened situation enough to keep the important things in perspective. But when it came to my relationship I seemed to invest too much into it, and that maintenance of perspective became skewed. This meant that any imbalance in understanding between me and my partner rocked the foundations of all that investment, and it scared me. It scared the shit out of me. Unfortunately my response to that fear was anger.

What struck me most when reading my story fragment was how I had discarded my perception of self. I walk around every day with an image in my head of the man I am. I picture my strengths and weaknesses, my ideas and beliefs, and believe they are unwavering. That I am who I think I am. But that image of self was torn like tissue paper the moment my stress overwhelmed me, and I became a man I didn’t want to be. A man I didn’t even like, and one I didn’t want to be able to relate to. And what made it worse was I did it without any insight until it was too late.

The thousands of thoughts and convictions that made me up were forgotten in one scalding instant.

What I like about this snippet of writing is it so clearly demonstrates that moment when I realised I had lost control. The juxtaposition between who I thought I was and who I was being. It’s a hard thing to see in yourself, but that just makes it more important. It’s necessary to be reminded that the border between restraint and abandon is more easily crossed than I like to think. It’s not something to be ashamed of, but it is something I should be aware of.

I hope I’m not that angry man anymore. I hope the trials I’ve faced and the reflection I’ve given have taught me to avoid my own pitfalls, but it would be foolish to forget what I’m capable of. By writing this, by reading my own illustration, I hope I can keep in mind how fragile a sense of self is.

But also to remember to be proud that I’m getting some kind of idea of what the hell I’m doing.

ENCOMIUM – PART 1

/ jonathanrobb / 4 Comments

I watch my feet as I walk up the cracked and sloped path between the red-brick wall to my left and the overgrown hedge to my right. Ted’s backyard appears before me, a lawn in want of mowing, a small aluminium shed, and the odd sun-faded lawn gnome peering out from the dense brush of a bush. I shake my head and wonder why anyone would want to populate their yard with the eerily smiling porcelain figures.

Ted’s back door is a mess of flaking green paint and I stop a moment to read the sign nailed to it.

WARNING: THIS BUILDING HAS BEEN CONDEMNED AND IS AWAITING DECONSTRUCTION.

Ted told me they can’t knock the unit down until he leaves or dies, and that he has no intention of leaving. I smile at his contentment in keeping the sign in place, his complacency in spite of the words written on it. I glance at the thumb-thick cracks veining the brickwork and wonder if it wouldn’t be better for Ted to relocate. But, as he says, this is his home.

I knock and the door shakes against the brick wedging it open a hand span. The gap is for his ladies to come and go.

‘Ted!’ I call out and enter before waiting for a response. I know where Ted will be.

The stink of putrefying cat food billows up at me and I glance down at the bowl by my feet. Globs of brown muck have spilled over onto the kitchen’s scuffed linoleum, but, thankfully, there are no maggots in the bowl this time. By the smell, they can’t be far off.

‘Ted,’ I say again, ‘it’s the nurse.’ I step through the doorway to my right and into Ted’s living room. The cold and silence of the kitchen is replaced by a thick heat and the whirr of a heater’s fan, and Ted is slouched in a one-person sofa in the corner of the room. His legs are stretched out inches from the glowing filaments. One day his pants will alight.

‘Ted!’ I say louder, and the crumpled marionette of Ted’s form becomes animated as he jerks awake and looks around. Even with his advanced age he is a tall man and his knees come up high as he straightens in his chair. His watery blue eyes find mine and a smile spreads across his narrow face, his white stubble parting to either side. He blinks a few times, orientating himself.

‘Oh, hello!’ His voice still has a northern English accent despite forty years of living in Australia and I’m charmed by it immediately. ‘I must have dozed off. Now, who are you?’

The question is asked with a carefree attitude. Ted is completely unfazed at being awoken by a stranger in his living room.

‘My name’s Jonathan. I’m the district nurse. I’m just here to help with your tablets. How are you doing?’ I wonder how many times I’ve introduced myself to this man. It’s probably in the hundreds.

‘Oh, just fine. A pleasure to meet you, Jonathan. Can I get you a drink?’

His hands are already moving, looking for his cane and preparing to hoist himself from his seat. I wave a hand and assure him I’m fine. ‘I’ve already had my morning coffee, so I’m all fuelled up. Thanks anyway, mate. I’ll just have a look in your book and get your tablets ready.’

I drop my bag to the floor, place my work laptop on an empty seat, and turn to the table set against the opposite wall. Ted’s medical folder is spotted and splotched with stains, a testament to the meals he’s eaten on this small square table. I open it and put it to the side, then unlock the metal box that holds Ted’s medications. I peruse the list of drugs in the folder and begin the process of picking through the packets and bottles jumbled in the box.

‘You’re a strapping young lad,’ Ted says from behind me. I smile and turn and await his next sentence. ‘You’d make a fine soldier.’

‘You reckon?’ I ask with a smirk and he nods emphatically. Ted has told me daily for the past year that I would make a fine soldier. I don’t know what he bases this statement on; I’m not particularly tall nor heavily muscled. Still, I get a small flush of pride every time he says it, as if I’ve passed some sort of test.

‘Oh yes. I was a soldier, did you know?’

I knew. ‘Really?’

‘Queen’s guard.’ He straightens as he says it, his chest full. ‘I used to parole Buckingham Palace. Spooky place at night. Haunted, you know?’

‘That’s incredible, Ted.’ I turn back and shake a warfarin tablet from its bottle, rattling as it hits the medicine cup, then grab a box of omeprazole. ‘So you wore the hat and everything?’

‘I did, I did. And you couldn’t move.’ He raises a finger as he says this, his whole body joining in the telling. ‘Tourists would come and tie our laces together, and you had to stay perfectly still. They’d send out guards every hour to give us a drink and untie our laces.’

‘They’d tie your laces together?’ Having heard the story so many times before my incredulity is a little forced. ‘The bastards.’

Ted chortles a laugh and nods, and his eyes unfocus as he sorts through his memories. ‘And then I worked as a soldier out in the desert. Oh, it’d get cold at night out there.’ He chuckles. ‘One time I lit myself on fire!’

His declaration is designed to spark my interest and by now I know my lines well. ‘You lit yourself on fire? How did you manage that in the middle of the desert?’ Having memorised the stories means I can concentrate on sorting Ted’s tablets while still giving the appropriate responses.

‘Well, each night when we’d set up camp it would be one man’s job to dig the fire pit. This night I had dug the pit and put the fuel at the bottom,’ he stands to do the reenactment justice and I have to resist the urge to step over and stabilise him as he wavers on his feet, ‘and I lit it.’ He squats and mimes throwing a match into an imaginary hole. ‘We used oil, you see, and the fire roared.’ His hands spread in an imitation of high-burning flames. ‘I turned to get the pot,’ he chuckles at this point and does another shaky squat, ‘and my shirt tales went right in the fire.’

My face is an open expression of disbelieving shock. Of course, I know this story, but Ted is a good story teller and he has me engaged.

‘I hear a fellow call out, “Ted, you’re on fire!” I say, “What? Fire!” and I bolt off into the desert.’ He claps his hands and he’s wheezing with laughter and I laugh along with him. ‘Three men had to chase after me through the desert to put me out.’

He collapses back into his seat, a grin of reminiscence riding his lips. I’m always amazed this man can describe being burnt and find it amusing. His optimism is inspiring. I drop his final tablet into the medicine cup and carry it to him.

‘There’s your tablets, Ted. Can I get you a drink to wash them down?’

‘Oh, sure, that would be lovely.’

I nod and hand him the plastic cup, then step back through the doorway into the kitchen, careful to give the dish of cat-food a wide berth. I open his ancient fridge and pull out a carton of milk and take it to the sink. A tin of nutritional supplement power sits on the bench and I pop the lid while taking a glass from Ted’s drying rack. I study the glass and find a cosmos of dried foodstuff clinging to the walls of it. The water is icy as I turn the tap and give the glass a quick scrub, and behind me I can hear Ted standing from his chair. I glance over my shoulder and see him leaning in the doorway. He’s come looking for conversation.

‘So, tell me, Ted, what happened after you were burnt?’

‘What’s that?’ His brow furrows. He’s forgotten already, my brief absence wiping his memory clean.

‘In the desert. You were telling me you lit yourself on fire.’

‘Was I? Well. I ended up in a hospital in Libya. For a month I had to lay on my belly while the nurses changed the dressings to my back each day.’

‘A month?’ I say and look around for a tea towel. The only one in sight is dried and crusted with a lifetime of wiped-up spills. I decide a wet glass is preferable and scoop two spoonfuls of powder into it, followed by a large pour of milk.

‘A month! And then—’ I pause in stirring the mixture and look at him as he says my favourite line, ‘—my old fellah got septic!’ His cackle is infectious and my brows are high in my hairline as I laugh with him. ‘Blew up to the size of an eggplant.’

I carry the glass to Ted and place a hand on his back as I guide him into the warmth of the lounge room and to his chair. ‘No luck at all, mate. I’m sure the nurses were impressed, though.’

He chortles and knocks his tablets back like a shot, takes a gulp of his drink and settles into the cushions, a stain of milk marking his top lip. A soft curious meow sounds from the doorway and a mottled long-haired cat slinks into the room. She gives another quick meow and rubs her body against Ted’s leg. Ted’s hand drops and his long fingers run from head to tail.

‘Oh, there’s my lovely lady. How are you, darling? Hmm?’ He looks at me. ‘I’ve got three ladies: Evelyn, Lucy, and Dot. This here is Evelyn.’

‘She’s a beautiful cat, Ted.’

‘Oh yes. You are, aren’t you? I don’t where the other two are, but they’ll show up. They always do.’

I know where they are. Ted’s told me he buried Dot in the south corner of his backyard, and his case manager phoned two weeks ago to let me know they had to put Lucy down. I don’t bother reminding Ted of their deaths; he’d only forget again anyway, and he’s not disturbed by their absence.

I smile as I watch this man enjoy the texture of his cat’s soft fur, a smile on his milk-lined mouth, and listen to the low rumble of Evelyn’s purr. Ted looks up at me.

‘You’re a strapping young lad. You’d make a fine soldier.’

That persistent flush of pride reawakens again and I smile. ‘You reckon?’

‘Oh yes. I was a soldier. Queen’s guard.’

I tilt my head. ‘Impressive.’ I glance at my watch and sigh. ‘Sorry, Ted, I had best be moving on. But I’ll see you again this afternoon, okay?’ I hoist my bag from the floor to my shoulder and pick up my laptop.

‘No worries, lad, my door is always open.’ He spreads his hands wide, a universal gesture of welcome. The generosity of this man who has so little is humbling. ‘And thanks for coming by.’

I extend my arm and give him a firm handshake. I feel hard muscles in his palm amongst the knobbly joints of his fingers. ‘Thank you, Ted. You’re a good man.’

‘Not a worry.’ He gives me a grin and I nod back with one of my own.

I step into the kitchen and pause. ‘Oh, and, Ted?’ I call out. ‘I think the cat food’s about due for a change.’

‘Will do,’ his call comes back.

I pull open the door, walk past Ted’s backyard, and head down the path beside his house, my eyes finding the cracks that spread like rivers between the brickwork.

THE NATURE OF IMPATIENCE

/ jonathanrobb / 2 Comments

Recently I broke up with my partner of five years. Let me assure you now, at the outset, this will not be a post describing in excruciating and uncomfortable detail my heartbreak, no, but the information is relevant because it sets the context.

In five years you set patterns, you develop routines, you build a sense of yourself that is, in part, reliant on the other person. My break up forced me out of the familiar little rut I had burrowed into. In what felt like an instant, everything well-known, every habitual instinct I had in my home became foreign and awkward. The activities and past times I used to use to fill the hours between work days were no longer available and I found myself as an unsure guest in my own home.

This is a jarring experience. The usual jokes I would make, ideas I would express, and places of comfort I would seek were no longer there. I was alone. It was just me. And I didn’t really know what to do with myself. I have hobbies, yes, but the beauty of a hobby is both in the picking up and putting down, and once I had placed my hobby down and raised my head I found myself asking, “Now what?”

The first week was spent in justified idleness. I was sad and therefore entitled to unrestricted wallowing. I would do small things to maintain the house and feel immensely proud for continuing to act like an adult in my time of hardship. People told me I was doing well and I believed them.

It was into the third week that I found myself walking up and down my hallway. The dishes were drying in the rack, my lunch was made for the next work day, and I was pacing my tiled walkway in silence. The same question came to me that has probably just occurred to you. What the hell was I doing?

The truth. I was waiting.

I know how break ups go. We talk about them, we analyse them, we watch them in countless movies and television shows. I knew the stages of grief and felt like I was moving through them at a satisfactory pace and in a satisfactory manner. And what comes after. Life, right? It’s after the shock, after the depression that the dust settles and life comes barreling in to whisk you, newly single, into the next stage of your life. This is how it had felt after previous break ups. But my previous break ups always came at a time when my life was changing anyway. The end of high school, the start of university. Now I had a full-time job, I had my own home to return to. I had unbroken routine, and life, if it was going to happen, was happening. So with life happening, why the hell was I wasting it walking up and down my hallway?

The truth. I was impatient.

A prickle began to build, a thorn of impatience growing within me that snagged every time nothing happened. When I had done the necessary tasks of caring for myself, when I had watched television, read a book, cooked and eaten, I still found myself with empty hours to fill and no real drive to fill them. I was lonely, I was bored, and I was impatient because life wasn’t rushing in to entertain me and fill the hours with action.

A month after the break up I took a week off work and reassured myself that life would begin now. I didn’t have work to blame or use as a crutch. I used the week to visit friends, to reorganise my home, to spend time with family, and gave myself room to think. To feel whatever it was I was feeling and the space to recognise it. It was perfect, and healing, and in the end I found myself back in my home, alone, with hours and hours to fill.

So rather than wait, rather than let the impatience build and boil, I set out to fill them. I began a painting. I didn’t have a date in mind of when to finish it, and with so much time on my hands I was in no rush to do so. I started it with an outline on a canvas. That was day one: just the outline. The next day I squeezed out one colour of oil paint and dabbed spots of black in the appropriate parts. The third day I chose three colours to work with. By day four my palette was a mess of hues and I wasted no time in setting to work. I had an audiobook playing in my ears and my hands were busy applying paint, and I was happy. I was engaged, and unaware of the hours that needed filling.

This small act of starting something open a door in my head. Months before my cousin visited wearing a beanie someone had crocheted for him, and at the time I told myself I would learn how to replicate the beanie. The burst of inspiration was diluted by the cycle of normal living, and was forgotten. But now I found myself in a situation with nothing more pressing to attend to. I started by buying wool and a needle. Since then I’ve completed ten beanies — one for each of my family and a few of my own.

I started the first steps to decorating my house. I hung photographs and put together furniture.

I started getting fit. I ran four kilometres before gasping and spluttering to a stop. The next day I ran four and a half. Yesterday I ran ten.

I started to write again.

The lesson I learnt from this experience is not to wait. Not to sit back and wonder why life isn’t unfolding the way you want it to. In short:

If you’re impatient for something to start; start something.

THE FIRST TIME

/ jonathanrobb / 1 Comment

One of the most common things my patients say to me, excluding those unfortunate few who have lived with a chronic condition most of their lives, is “This is the first time I’ve ever been sick.” They say it as if daring me to believe it, because they themselves are having a hard time believing it. Their run of perfect health has inexplicably come to an end. They quote at me their perfect medical history, taking pride in their previous resilience:

“I broke my arm when I was seven, but beyond that I’ve never even seen a doctor!”

They are always surprised that their bodies have let them down. But why? Why are we taken by surprise by the fact that we are mortal, that our imperfect bodies, which until this point have been fighting like a Spartan to maintain homeostasis, have finally, inevitably, let us down?

The evidence is all around us. We watch a plethora of television shows set in a hospital that week-in and week-out cash in on the drama that is a healthy person falling sick. And the reason this is such a successful emotional hook is because we all know that such a thing is possible, even probable, when you consider the multitude of infinitesimal processes that can go wrong within our bodies. We swap stories about the health of our families and sigh in all the right places when hearing of another’s health decline. Yet we fail to, or refuse to, make the connection that we will all eventually have an occasion where we will be, for the first time, admitted into a hospital because something has gone wrong.

The irony is these same people who proudly boast about never having their blood-pressure checked in fifty years are the same people who have been walking around with increasingly high blood-pressure for the past forty years. One morning they pass out while attempting to move a couch, end up in emergency with a stroke, and later state to their nurse with complete surprise, “I’ve never even been sick before, and now all this happens!”

My favourite patient, and by favourite I mean in a sarcastic, eye-rolling sort of way, are the ones who blame accidents or hospitals for the chronic disease they have due to a lifetime of poor lifestyle decisions. One of the best examples I have of this was when a sixty-year old man told me the tale of how he procured type two diabetes. This is a man with a gut that preceded him by at least thirty centimetres, a man who thought a six-pack of sugar-covered doughnuts to be an appropriate between meal snack, and who hadn’t done regular exercise since playing football in high-school.

Out of the two of us, I thought I could give a more accurate rendition of how he procured type two diabetes.

The story went that one day in his fifties he had decided to try riding a bike again. He pumped the tyres of his old bicycle and headed out onto the streets, flushed with the joy of being back on the road with the wind in his thinning hair. Unfortunately a neighbouring dog found the image of an overweight middle-aged man on a bike to be greatly entertaining and decided to join him. While attempting to shake the dog off his tail with a mixture of swerving handlebars, wobbling wheels and wildly kicking feet, our man lost control of his bike, fractured his hip and ended up in hospital. Where, as is common procedure, they took a blood sample and discovered he had previously undiagnosed type two diabetes.

Or, as my patient put it, “Fracturing my hip gave me diabetes.”

Despite my tactful attempt to suggest that it was simply the series of events that resulted in the discovery of his disease, that it was more likely down to the fact that he has three sugars in his tea and has eight cups of tea a day that led to his diabetes, he remained resolute that the act of fracturing a bone in his pelvis gave him high blood sugar. In the end, after half an hour of discussion, I sighed, nodded, and said with complete sincerity that I hope he never fractures his other hip or else he could end up with high blood pressure. To which he responded that he already has high blood pressure, but that he got it from his mum.

We all, every one of us, will eventually find ourselves in a hospital ward due to something that has gone wrong with us physically. It may be our fault, it may be an accident, or it may be a genetic condition that has reared its ugly head in later life, but something will happen someday.

The best we can do is accept this, and in the mean time work towards being as healthy as possible, enjoying and appreciating our health while we have it, and exploring ways we can improve ourselves when a health condition becomes known.

And for god’s sake, try to look after your hips.

They may be the only things standing between you and diabetes.