Chapter 5 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 5.

`Good morning, Mr. Mytholmroyd,' a young nurse rolled up my
sleeve. I opened one eye, lifted my head. Hell, a hypodermic
needle, kidney bowl, and... `Just a small prick,' she sounded damned
jolly.

`Ouch!'

`There, that wasn't so bad, was it?' she pulled back the
curtain and left with my blood.

It was all right for her, I searched for the damage,... but not
even a scar to take home. Well, at least, today's the last day so my
blood test is over and done with. Now, where was I, last night,
before going to sleep? Ah, yes, I had found the cure, but should I
keep it to myself? If Simon's Seat becomes as famous as Lourdes its
peace will be gone for ever: cafes and memento shops everywhere,
maybe even reopen the railway line.

Hang on, it can't be that easy, I started to sip the day's
first cup of tea. There must be something else besides simply
climbing a hill, otherwise the cure would have worked on Adderton
Hill. Nor could it have been exhaustion to blame, the hump at the
end of our lane is little more than a mound. So why am I in here? Is
it only a cure when a mountain is climbed? Was it like Moses going
for his prescription of tablets?

`Breakfast, Mister, er, Mylo-therm..?' bustled a meals lady,
this one starched in a fresh-washed green.

Don't they ever leave patients alone? I chewed the porridge,
wanting to get on with my thoughts.

`Do yer want me bacon?' the man in the next bed offered a lank
rasher skewered to the end of his fork. `Open yer eyes, lad, and
cheer up.'

`No thanks,' I smiled, shaking my head.

`Not going to cheer up?' he became depressed.

`No, no, I didn't mean that. `I'm not glum. Quite happy, in
fact. Just thinking.'

Another patient accepted his offer, leaving me free to
concentrate upon the problem of Adderton Hump. It was then that I
remembered that climbing Simon's Seat was not always good news. For
example, last year, when we attempted it yet again. Things
had kicked off very similar, being a Sunday, parked on the same
track, near the same patch of grass, but this time it was autumn,
not spring. I had sniffed the air before we started, deciding that
the clouds were warm enough to hold back the rain. Again Lena
stayed behind, though this time she preferred romantic paperbacks
instead of knitting whilst the children and I were climbing.

Something else was also different. John turned back to keep
Lena company, leaving Claire and me to continue alone. Was it that
he had spotted that old farm house in the valley with an ice cream
sign nailed to its roof?

It left me disappointed, and almost immediately my legs began
to ache. Not like last time, but more like jelly-aching jelly. How
peculiar, having to use my arms to haul myself even before it became
steep. Was this because Claire was older, stronger, giving me less
of a rest than before? She hung back, kindly, as though waiting for
the old man,... or somebody ill? I was not, of course, yet by the
time we reached the plateau I was floundering and falling, our roles
reversed in less than four years.

Perhaps this is what getting old is like. `You go on, Claire.
I'll catch up,' not wanting her to witness my condition as I
staggered and lurched those last hundred meters. She was waiting,
when I crawled onto the summit, the sun having broken through, her
legs dangling over the rocks, dipping her fingers in a fissure of
warm water. God, the climb had been painful, but everything would
be worthwhile when I recovered like last time. I looked down, again
the same Kail, same fells, same valley, same everything.... except
that the same faith needed to move a mere mustard seed was now
missing. `Don't think I'll see this lot again.'

`Pardon?' Claire heard. My silent whisper was not silent enough
in the quiet which had settled over the hills.

`Nothing,' I dismissed, making a joke of myself, saying how
strong she was growing. She smiled, reclining back on her rock as
sunlight broke through, turning up her sleeves, and floated on
freedom.

We could have stayed there for ever, time no longer having
meaning but, somewhere in the world, below where clocks still
ticked, there were two spaces waiting, a time warp away, our return
overdue. Lena would be starting to worry, John might be hungry. `We
can always come back another day, Dad,' Claire tugged me to my feet.
I hesitated, touching a rock for the last time, but hoping she
was right.

Our descent was slow, my legs fearful of falling, but once on
the foothill Claire burst into a sprint over grass. `Race you to the
gate,' she laughed, taking me by surprise, probably thinking my limp
was just a ploy. My muscles exploded, determined to win.

`All right, you win,' I gave up, this time not cured. She
suspected a trick and was soon lost from view.

Tired, in a funny sort of way, I lurched along a rough track,
out of sight, as though drunk, blaming myself for my health. But our
car was parked just round the corner so I braced every muscle,
before Lena or the children could see me, and concentrated on
walking next to the wall. Oh, no, my legs broke into a dry-stone
stutter, like a Saint Vitas' Dance. Lena would give me that "I told
you so" look. She would be quick to suspect me of overdoing things
so I crouched, as though looking for specimens, disguising the state
I was in.

But Lena was not as stupid as she occasionally pretended to be.
I did not know our doctor had told her that something was wrong at
the time of the fire, this was the logic behind her now having got
me in hospital. Stupid woman, she expected a cure, without any idea
that it was going to be as serious as multiple sclerosis. Mind you,
at least she would not be opening secret savings accounts in case I
got worse. We had known each other too long for anything like that.

Meanwhile, whilst in hospital, I was preoccupied, thinking of
Simon's Seat, searching for clues. Was it a case of me failing to
pace myself during the second climb, or was it me not being fit
enough at the start,.. or perhaps because on this occasion the dull
hand of Lena had not left that Sunday euphoric?

`Tea or juice wi' yer dinner,' a relief meal-lady's trolley ran
into the foot of my bed.

`Watch it,' joked a patient. `Tha'll amputate `is bloody leg.'

`Er, tea, please, that's all,' I sat up, reluctantly. There was
so much to think about.

`Is tha' sure?' she demanded, swelling with the importance of
an influx of air.

`Better have a meal,' I changed my mind, not wishing to
jeopardize being discharged tonight, even though staying in hospital
provided a constructive alibi for staying off work.

`What about the idea of exercise being linked to improvement
whilst enjoying myself?' I wondered with a silent smile whilst
toying with the peas, stirring them into the gravy and mashing them
into the mash. This is what those different climbs of Simon's Seat
seemed to suggest. Well then, was there ever an example of euphoria
alone being sufficient?

Of course there was. I only had to go back nine months to
August when I was been able to race up and down those escalators on
the Underground, and that was after that terrible climb of Simon's
Seat had gone so awfully wrong.

A strange August it had been, looking for a job, after putting
my business up for sale. There were one or two openings but, being
in my forties, it could be the last chance to achieve something big.
As a result I had ended up being interviewed in London with an
international firm of consultants.

`We would like your wife to accompany you,' they pressed.

Wife? I was unable to see why, perhaps some new American
practice. Lena was even more suspicious but their address in Oxford
Street, close to the shops, and a day away from the children, was
too good to miss.

`Take a seat,' they motioned to us both, asking Lena the same
questions after interviewing me. A quick way of checking my
answers.

`Never again,' she vowed, on the way home, as the train raced
for Leeds where we had parked. `Another of your madcap schemes,' she
snapped, leaving me bemused. `The only reason I came was because of
the shops. You conned me.'

I remained at a loss, wondering whether these comments were
said tongue in cheek, jibes at having missed out on her spending the
business before it was sold? I shelved any reply, hoping that having
missed the train with a restaurant car was the reason to blame.
After all, she wanted me in a secure job with an increased salary,
didn't she? Given time, things will look different and, sure enough,
within a couple of days she encouraged me to return for even more
interviews,.... `So long as I don't have to go with you.'

Three weeks later I was back in London, but this time my stride
was uncertain. It affected my ego, having an imperfection, so I
swelled out my chest and exaggerated the limp, macho style, as
though I had earned an injury whilst playing rugby. Illogical, I
know, for how many eyes would have even bothered to look? But it
straightened my aim of direction until I arrived at the escalators.
Then it was humiliation time, all reflexes in chaos when trying to
get on and off.

Somehow I regained a kind of composure, practicing my disguised
limp before walking into Oxford Street. `You will find some question
papers in the next room,' a secretary welcomed me. The interviews
had become tests, tests that lasted two days.

When the results came through I was summoned back to London and
redirected to a hotel where an industrial psychologist was waiting.
My session with him lasted the whole morning. He was also present
during the afternoon when I was interviewed by the boss, with the
big boss from America by his side. Strange how, when the odds were
titanic, I always rose to the occasion. I suppose it's something to
do with adrenaline, the adrenaline that was put to good effect by my
ancestors when they were being chased across Britain by saber
toothed tigers.

It's unbelievable, the way I raced up and down every escalator
on the way home, ego-boosting interviews having produced a complete
cure. This was a very important memory indeed. No exercise, just
euphoria, plus a different type of stress, the short-term emergency
jungle type, unlike the drip, drip, drip of a long-term depression.
This is more like the good news for which I was looking to help me
when I got out of..........

`Hello,' a voice reminded me of just where I was. Good
gracious, It was Lena, and afternoon visiting time. But why was
she here? This was my last afternoon.

I sat upright. Why the case?'

`I've come for your clothes.'

`Clothes, what clothes? I'm coming home today.'

She blushed. `Sister says they've been busy. There's still one
or two more tests left, and they won't be finished before tomorrow.'

`Tomorrow!'

`Shush, not so loud,' her embarrassment blushed.

`How long have you known?'

She did nit reply, but looked round the ward.

`How long have you known?' I raised my voice.

`Yesterday,.. afternoon, on the way out, Sister told me.'

`Pull the other one.' Visitors' heads were eagerly turned,
enjoying the row as I threatened to get out of bed to find Sister.
`Don't expect me to be so naive as to believe that you've turned up
with a portmanteau of a suitcase, just for one day.'

`I brought it yesterday, to take your clothes home. You're
breaking regulations. Did you persuade a young nurse to hide them?'

It was no longer a joke. Was this that type of hospital where
tomorrow never comes? But best to smile and divert her attention, I
might be glad that I have a suit in the locker if need to escape.
`She's off duty,' I lied, increasing the deception, assuming she
would not risk wishing to be shown up in front of Sister.

`You are so childish,' she assumed the high ground, whilst
still on the bottom step, loosing her temper and hurrying from the
ward, blushing even deeper as though other patients had X-ray eyes
and could see that the case she carried was empty. The ward doors
swung back and forth in her wake.

Before I could settle a woman doctor appeared. She was young,
in a pristine white coat, with a stethoscope fresh to her neck and
began to search for a patient. She started at the end of the ward,
moving nearer, definitely very attractive. Oh, hell, it was me she
was looking for. `Mister Mytholmroyd?'

Damn, even the most beautiful rose can prick deep. With
reluctance I nodded, failing to cover over my name.

`Could I have you lying on your bed, please?' she withdrew some
tools from her pocket. I stretched, looking for any sign of painful
implements. `Just a few tests,' she took hold of my arm.

`That's what they all say.'

She smiled, selecting a tuning fork, wanting to test my
awareness of touch. That's a relief, I've seen them before, several
times. In fact I know all of them so well that I know the answers
off by heart. I can easily make myself look healthy.

Ah, something different, she came up with a new test. `I'd like
you to stand to attention, and close your eyes,' she pointed to a
spot well away from my bed. `It's all right, don't worry, I won't
let you fall.'

Won't let me fall? I chuckled. She must be confusing me with
somebody else. Doesn't she know that, apart from my temporary
inconvenience, I am the one who runs up and down hills and plays
games? `Oops,' it came as a shock when I toppled into her arms.
Quick, a joke, say anything to cover up failure, `Can we do that
test again, doctor?'... But she swiftly gathered up her
instruments. `If it bothers you, we could close the curtains,' my
voice followed her. Pity, she was gone, evaporated in a haze of
self-consciousness.

Ah, well, with that little interlude over I can put on my
thinking cap. What about diet? Nothing special there although,
during the past year, Mother has commented upon my complexion,
inferring that Lena was not feeding me properly. `Here, Willie,' she
would pass Father his pocket money. `Go to the chemists, get Martin
some vitamin tablets.'

Funny, every time they seemed to make me feel even healthier
than normal. That pleased her, she was sure they made me look
better. Probably just her imagination, particularly since experts
said that ordinary diets contained everything that a normal person
needed. But animals are given dietary supplements, I remembered,
and multiple sclerosis is not normal. To heck with the experts, I've
got nothing to lose, I'll take multivitamins when I get out. `You a
vegetarian?' shouted a hospital orderly, short coated and new to the
job, pointing his clipboard towards me. What a coincidence, almost
as though he knew I was thinking of food. Was that a mustard seed
speaking to me?

`No,' I shook my head, ignoring fate's whisper. `Don't like
pastry.'

`Knew you didn't eat normal food,' he searched for a column to
tick, then made a note before moving on in search of other abnormal
patients.

After dinner I continued to think about tablets. This time
those strange ones my GP prescribed, the ones which had got rid
of the tingling in my legs during those weeks following my fire. I
had continued to take them for a while, but forgot them when the
business reopened. Trade grew so quickly we were able to afford an
inexpensive holiday with friends. It was a good holiday, every day
playing games, my health blooming by the time we returned home.
Yet, whilst we were there, my legs jarred each time we zigzagged
down the path to the beach. A bit like fluid on the knee, I thought
at the time, vowing to use those strange capsules the following
year.

Sure enough, next summer, when we returned to Bournemouth, that
holiday was just as good, probably even better considering that my
knees no longer jarred since I had remembered the capsules.
Goodness knows what the doctor had prescribed. Yet is that why I got
into the habit of taking them again? Don't think it's very
important though, I thought, and turned onto my front, ready for
sleep, burying my head under the pillows away from the ward's chorus
of moaning and groaning.

The next thing I knew someone was poking me. `Silly sod,' I
swore, uncovering my head, only to find a nurse breathing a sigh of
relief. Being tall and thin I had merged into the bedding. `I
always sleep like this,' I dismissed her worry that she thought I
was missing.

`Perhaps you do,' she snapped, `But not any more. Last week we
had a suicide escape down the fire escape. We'll have you sleeping
in a normal position, where we can see you,' she tucked in my sheets
tightly, pinning me down to the mattress.

Subdued light daisy-ringed in pools onto the floor, away from
patients, leaving a dim veil of darkness sufficient for each still
to be seen. I closed my mind, almost got used to the moaning, then,
`Have you? ....Grown `em yourself?..... Have you shown
Mother?..... I would, .....,' started up the man in the next bed.
`You'll win..... Definite,..... Get first prize.....'

`Nurse,' I whispered, next time she passed. `How long does this
go on for?'

`All night, that's why we offered you a sleeping tablet, like
everyone else.'

`Why don't you give him one. Then we can all have a sleep, and
look at the money you'll save on tablets.'

`Can't. He's too poorly.'

To stop me from asking more questions, provided I promised not
to run away, she allowed me to turn onto my front, even with a
pillow covering my head.

`Fool,' I thought, before falling asleep, `What did you swear
to yourself after being cured, following that climb of Simon's Seat,
"I'll never let myself become ill again"?..... And what did you do,
work yourself stupid until you've ended up here?.... Well,
remember, next time you return to health, after harnessing that
faith, faith no larger than a mustard seed - don't waste it, it
might be your last chance.'
_

Read the following chapters that tell of how Martin "cured" his M.S. and climbed mountains by the following year.

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