Chapter 38 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 38.

Zena returned to work, thrice, and thrice the rooks cawed and
thrice she was ill again. `You're suffering from post-flu
depression. You've never given your body time to recover,' her
doctor told her. `Have you got anyone to look after you?'

`Why did you not say there was me?' I asked Zena when she
phoned me.

`You're just getting over an attack of M.S., so I promised the
doctor I'd go away for a rest.' Her voice was frail.

`I could still take care of you.'

`She didn't think that would be a very good idea.'

`Why not? Didn't you tell him about how we managed on holiday
together?'

`Of course I did, darling, but I must have a long rest. Anyway,
he's a her.'

`Yes, but...'

`It's no use, we can't help each other until we're both better.
As soon as the hospital says I'm fit enough I'm going to convalesce
at my sister's.'

`Hospital! Perhaps I can visit you there?'

`I've told you, until...,' she started to cry.

`I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I won't worry you any more. But,
perhaps, when you're better, and resting at your sisters?'

`She's a se, se, semi-retired writer,...' she continued to sob.

`If it's all right, I don't..'

`..In Tuscany.'

`Tuscany?'

`She finds it help, helps her writing.'

`Oh.'

`Don't, don't worry, I'll let you know when I get home.'

I sat cross-legged, bottom moulded deeply into the carpet.
`Bugger, bugger, bugger,' locusts had stripped my orchard of
happiness. I gazed into the middle distance, television pictures
were dancing whilst images of Zena and our holidays and of joy and
of sadness popped up in the distant beyond. `Sod!' Suddenly my legs
had fallen asleep. `Sod, sod, sod,' they were paralysed. No matter
how much they tried they were unable to move. The damned bug had
sneaked back on me again.

I looked at the clock. Why had M.S. struck? Soon it would be
closing time. Good, John would be home. Another film started. Black
and white, “The Rise of Epohritius”. Never heard of it. Foreign,
with sub-titles. Can't read them at this distance, not with my
spectacles out of reach. Three more commercials and still John was
missing. Again and again Zena swam through my mind. Where the hell
was he? My long arms needed to grow longer if I wanted to switch
the bloody thing off. Damn, damn, damn.....

Then the door burst open. `I'm going to a party,' his head
nipped in and nipped out before I could say no.

`Oy! John,' I bellowed. `John.'

The door nudged back open, but this time without showing his
head, not even his nose, `What?' he grudged.

`I can't move. Please will you find our camping mattress and
put it on the floor? Please, before you go out.'

`Sorry, dad, I didn't know you were ill,' his face preceding
his body, with a complexion paled by concern, `Have you been waiting
long?'

`No, only a short while. That doesn't matter.'

`I'll stay in.'

`No need to do that, John. I'll be all right, so long as you
untangle my legs, help me onto the mattress, and cover me up.'

`Are you sure you don't mind?'

`Of course I don't mind. You know me, providing there's a
mattress and oxygen I'm fine. Besides, what else can anyone do?'

`I'll keep popping back. Will Zena be coming tomorrow? Do you
want a drink, before I go?'

`No thanks, I've got trouble enough without adding a drink to
my bladder. Besides, Zena's still ill. You go and enjoy yourself.'

He was obviously worried, too worried to leave me, yet anxious
to get to the party. There followed a stop-go go-stop before he
returned to ask, `Are you sure?'

`Yes, good of you to ask. But if I could cycle to London, just
seven years ago, tonight I'll be able to lie on a mattress waiting
until my legs get better,' my head disappeared under the quilt.
`Good night, leave the light on,' I added, voice muffled by
bedding, just in case I need to rely upon vision for balance, `See
you in the morning.'

My ocean of thoughts ebbed, like waves receding, hoping the
rooks had missed a mustard seed before the tide came in, a shimmer
of hope seeping into the shifting sands of sleep.

Later, later, I woke up. how much later? What time was it? The
clock, the clock? My head was pounding, sight blurred, was it two
o'clock? I tilted my head. Or just ten past twelve? Screwed round,
I managed to focus. It was precisely one minute past two, or one
minute to two, depending upon which was the big hand? The mattress
felt damp, I was wringing with sweat, heart thumping. Heart
thumping! Good, a vigorous blood supply without the complication of
exercise. Just the thing I had been waiting for. A chance to see
whether richly-oxygenated blood, this time a vigorous flow, could
mimic what had happened in Walt Khitley's pressure chamber and bring
about an improvement in my multiple sclerosis.

Tissues began to tingle, limbs became stronger, and after
fifteen minutes I was able to stand. `Bloody marvellous,' I
shouted, frightening a spider which had darted, three darts at a
time zigzagging over the ceiling, to freeze. `Bloody marvellous,' I
shouted even louder, causing the spider to dart leg over abdomen
back into its nest. The speed of my recovery had come as a shock,
`But don't overdo things, settle down, doze a while, breath some
more oxygen,' I mumbled aloud, weaving a deep pile of excuses until
I had sunk into sleep.

Next morning I was fit for light jobs, like washing the pots
and concentrating on throwing off yesterday's flu. If only I had
attempted this treatment at Christmas? But it wouldn't have worked,
my pulse rate at that time being normal, although perhaps Walt's
chamber might have helped - what with oxygen under pressure not
requiring a fast-beating heart? That's another experiment to carry
out next time I'm ill, to see if an increased supply of oxygen to
the brain would reduce the severity of an M.S. attack.

`Tha ought to get thee sen' swimming,' Stan pontificated on his
throne by the fire when I called at the Jolly Poacher to celebrate
the good news. He was leaning back on his haunches of wisdom, one
thumb under the belt which held in his stomach as well as supporting
its trousers, the other hand holding a pint. `If tha's got thee
lungs full of air tha can't drown, and that'll guarantee filling
thee brain wi' oxygen, provided tha keeps thee head above water,' he
guffawed. `Besides, swimming's bloody good exercise.'

Perhaps he's right, I thought, next day, whilst counting the
lengths, swimming up and down amongst the green echo of a lonely
pool. I climbed out, shivering, leaving it completely deserted,
when it soaked up my thoughts before glazing over. It was still
there, still undisturbed, as I raced up the stairs in my rush to get
home.

`I've dashed up the stairs! Dashed up the stairs!' my legs
realised, their joy having disturbed a receptionist to gawp up from
her desk and wonder what rules were being broken as I stuffed my
head into the hood of their very public phone booth. `It's worked,'
I telephoned Stan, whilst looking down at my knees, obviously my
rooks had missed a seed or two. But if only it could have been Zena,
Zena being the one I really wanted to phone. Trouble is, she was
still ill, yet I had to phone someone, `I'm coming back this evening
to see if I can double the cure.'

`How did tha get on?' he wondered, a couple of days later, why
I had not rung him again.

`I ended up knackered,' my elbow flopping down against the bar.
`Problem is, I've already said I'd pay a full year's membership
fee.'

`No wonder tha looks buggered,' Lofty Cartwright butted in. `I
suppose it means tha'll go swimming every day until tha's got thee
money's worth?' he grinned, leaning forwards, cupping his ear,
supporting himself over his pumps, hoping to evoke a confidential
reply.

`Perhaps, maybe. I'll just have to see how it goes,' I
shrugged, turning and leaving. `See you sometime.'

Back home a letter was waiting. It had arrived in a brown
envelope that morning, which was as good an excuse as any for not
opening it lest it was something to do with my swimming club fee or
Access account. `Ah, well,' I flexed the pint of Dutch courage upon
which I had toddled home and started to ease a smooth pencil under
its flap, taking care not to tear least I should need to return it
to sender.

`Oh,' my alcohol smiled, the letter was only from SRIMS, the
Society for Research into Multiple Sclerosis, they were opening an
oxygen chamber near Leeds. Opening a centre near Leeds, and I'm on
their list! Is that a reward for my fund-raising cycle ride? No,
probably not, that was seven years ago, and maybe they don't know
that I'm broke. But perhaps if I turn up they might let me have
treatment on credit and, if I use the train, and my disabled pass,
at least I can afford to get there.

Ticket for one, half fare disabled, I fed my money unchallenged
into the ticket machine. It was programmed for coins, not people,
and unmolested by railway staff I travelled to Quipley station.
Well, almost, `Oy,' the train guard shouted full length of the
carriage when he saw me stand up and make a move for my bike. `This
yours?'

I cleared my throat.

`This ticket, according to regulations, is for the sole use of
disabled and retired. It's a criminal offence to.....'

`I've got multiple sclerosis.'

`Where's your crutches? You look all right to me.'

`People with M.S. have good days and bad days. Here's my
photograph, on the pass, and I only push my bike for carrying the
shopping,' I nudged closer to the door and he nudged me back. `Do
you know about multiple sclerosis?' I offered, keeping him occupied
to the point of distraction until we squeaked to a stop at Quipley
station.

`Get yourself off,' he flicked out his railway watch, as
though deciding that I might be a semi-disabled lawyer and he was
not going to risk that, especially since he did not believe a word
that I said. `I've no time to argue, my driver's already running
late.'

`Thanks,' I limped down, our mutual gratitude in exchange for
the conflict averted as he assisted me and my bike onto the
platform.

Yet how could I expect him to understand that I was having a
good day? Best not upset him, nor leave him wrongly imagining that
I had made a fool of him. `Don't get on your bike,' I muttered to
unadjustable components on my wheels until the train had turned the
corner and been swallowed into the black nether of a castellated
tunnel.

Now alone, sharing the silence of past times with the
loneliness of a railway track, I tried to set off, not finding the
pedals until fourth attempt. Still, at last I had remained upright,
as though those rooks had missed a couple of mustard seeds, but no
more than two because both ankles were repeatedly grazed whilst I
wobbled for three miles up and over a hill to the SRIMS therapy
centre. `Thank goodness for that,' I gasped, racing the last
hundred yards downhill to arrive, just in time, out of breath, tyres
smouldering to the touch and circulation racing.'

Ninety minutes later, after being unlocked from the chamber
where six of us had breathed oxygen under pressure, I pedalled
downhill in the opposite direction, zigzagging amongst traffic until
I rode into Leeds City Station.

`Oy! Off that. Go back to the other entrance, wheel it in.'

`But there are steps.'

`Oh, three steps too much for you? What's wrong with carrying
it? Company regulations state that only disabled passengers...' I
turned away before he had finished.

With only minutes to spare there had been no time to argue, the
picture on my pass being one of those unconvincing photographs taken
by flash in a half-curtained booth. I returned to "Go", raced onto
the platforms waving my hand in the air, brandishing what was left
of today's crumpled ticket.

Just in time, I caught the train and was tippled onto a seat as
it rocked over a cat's cradle of points which knitted the platforms
together. `Phew,' I unzipped my jacket and my breathing slowed down
to the pace the wheels which started to whisper a song to the
tracks. Houses, fields, closed coal mines and meadows and cows
passed by my window but all I saw were reflections of Zena.

`Adderton.'

`Um, pardon?'

`You're ticket said Adderton.'

`Mmm, yes.'

`Well you better get off, and take your junk with you, unless
you want to end up in Scunthorpe.'

Hell, I was there, I bundled myself and my bike backwards
through the guard's door.

`What you been bloody up to?' shouted a voice from a different
direction before I had time to wheel away from the platform, get on
the saddle, and straighten myself up.

`Been for oxygen,' I looked up, it was Stan.

`Did it leave you knackered?' he laughed, having watched me
being bundled off the train before it left Adderton station. He
rarely missed anything from the cab of his tractor.

`No, not after pacing myself,' I got off. `Look. Just see how
well my legs walk,' I started to demonstrate.

`Tha reckons t'exercise helps t' oxygen, then?' he chewed upon
something organic.

`Or oxygen helps exercise?' I raised my eyebrows.

`You what?' he had missed what I said, his attention
distracted by watching his cows. They were wandering close to the
line as the short train wormed its way round the bends and banked
into the distance.

`Or oxygen helps exercise,' I broke into his thoughts.

`What is?'

`It's all right, it's too late now.'

`Where?' he asked, still watching the last carriage disappear
out of sight. `Tha'll need a rest, then,' he spat out the pulp of
his organic chew. M.S. is so boring, but obviously he had heard part
of what I had said.

`In a way, but not too long a rest. It's more a matter of
pacing. Don't want to end up worse like I did after spending that
week lying in hospital.'

`Sort of like treading water, then?'

`Perhaps, you might say so?' I tried to puzzle that one out,
not having a clue what he meant, but thought it best to look
knowingly since I wanted to be off now that it had started to
drizzle.

`What's wrong with a bit of rain on thee `ead?' he laughed,
huddled in his sheltered cab, realising what I was up to.

`Nothing,' I wiped the wet off my saddle.

`Better get thee sen' swimming since last month tha said that
it had done thee so much good.'

`I intend to, I intend to,' I set off pedalling home whilst my
legs were still tingling, having realised that oxygen therapy
probably benefited from exercise.

During the next weeks I forgot all about rooks, went swimming,
had treatment at the SRIMS Centre, and my health continued to
improve. Yet how I hated swimming without Zena. Mind you, at least
I discovered that cold pools were much better than warm. Were my
constricted subcutaneous blood vessels diverting oxygenated blood to
my brain?... Or do cold nerves work better than hot?

`You what?'

I looked up. It was Stan. Over a month had passed and he had
chugged round to my house to see how I was doing. `Oh, nothing, I
was just wondering.'

`About thee windows?'

`No, not really.'

`Tha ought to, they're rotting.'

`I know that, but I don't want to complicate things by doing
the repairs by myself.'

`What's wrong with using Harry Hodger?' he tested the wind with
his finger.

`Harry Hodger! Hodger the Bodger?' I grimaced.

`Aye. Folk's say he's a bodger, but he does a good job in the
end, and he's cheap.' This time Stan reversed and switched off his
tractor, the rain was blowing into his cab. `I will have a coffee,
if you're offering.' There was little chance of him working his wet
fields today.

`He's only a decorator,' I huddled, sheltering in the lee of
one of Stan's wheels.

`Decorator? Don't you believe it. He can do anything, can
Harry. What's more, he's short of work at the moment.'

`Short of work? Not the best recommendation.'

`More a matter of his business having been caught by a swipe of
Thatcher's handbag.'

`I thought you were a Tory.'

`Just give me a coffee, and give him a try. I'll tell him to do
a good job.'

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

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