Chapter 41 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 41.

I took his advice, spluttered from garage to garage, found the
right model I wanted. `This one.'

`Yes sir, right sir, sign here,' the salesman lent me his best
pen. `It might take up to six weeks for Motability to process the
paperwork, what with this being your first time, sir,' he slithered
in this afterthought once I had signed.

`Never mind,' I shrugged, trusting that in the meanwhile my old
car would reach the oxygen centre, provided I drove gently: it was
a couple of months since my last dive.

`Is that how long your car's been off the road?' Mabs was
surprised. She was in charge of the oxygen therapy centre that day.
`I'm sorry, but it's half an hour until the next dive.'

`That's OK, I set off early, expecting to wait,' I opened my
newspaper. Just then a young woman entered, searching for
information, having never been to the SRIMS centre before. The man
following in her footsteps I guessed was her husband, his eyes
bored as though going shopping, only there under sufferance, looking
around for nothing to do.

I bet he's just been diagnosed, she's trying to find him a
cure, I guessed. `Martin,' Mabs called, breaking into my muse.
`The chamber's ready. Everyone's waiting for you, yet again!'

Its door clanged shut, air hissed in through a valve, pressure
started to rise, we put on our masks and began to breath oxygen. I
settled back into my newspaper again. `It's half time,' a voice
announced over the intercom. Those thirty minutes seemed to have
gone quickly, I stretching my legs, surprised that already I was
feeling much better. But I had not imagined myself to be ill, so
it just went to show how missing oxygen treatment gave M.S. the
chance to sneak up.

Once the dive was over we walked, limped, or some were wheeled,
through for coffee or tea. That young couple were still there, with
leaflets about SRIMS and how the centre worked. He was still bored,
averting his eyes from us that were maim. I intercepted him when he
was ready to leave. `It's right, you know, all this about diet and
oxygen,' I butted in. Someone passed us a cup of tea each as I
continued, `Fifteen years ago the specialist told me to return for
callipers until my wheelchair came through. I defied him,
discovered a diet, and ended up playing league cricket plus cycling
to London, and much, much more.'

He leaned forward, suddenly interested. Was he wondering why I
was here? I wondered. Perhaps to him it was like listening to an
economist arguing his case in the bankruptcy court.

`But I became overconfident, behaved as though fat would never
affect me, and ended up paralysed by a serious attack,' I stirred in
a sugar. `Some people reckon you should avoid this stuff,' I
continued stirring.

`Don't use it, myself,' he poured another cup of tea.

`Now that you know about the mistakes I made you can stay like
you are,' I continued, giving him a list of does and don'ts before
concluding. `Remember, when somebody says "it's Christmas, have a
little of this, or just a little of that," insisting that surely a
bit won't hurt; always refuse, tell them that you don't eat fat.
It's like saying I don't smoke, or sorry I don't drink cyanide,' I
stood up to leave. `I thought I could walk on water until someone
gave me fat. It's easily done, that's why I've got to start all
over again, and even then I'll never again be as fit as you,' I
demonstrated, and whilst I was limping he got out his note book
ready to swap our addresses. `And, if you haven't already done it,
make a friend of your doctor.'

Next day the weather man was right, for a change. Temperatures
soared, Summer's furnace distilled the sky a deep blue, almost all
the way to the stars, reminiscent of the Mediterranean and Zena.
That's a thought, I've forgotten to tell him how important his wife
is if he wants to stay healthy. I wrote him a letter:

“It won't be easy for her, she hasn't got the disease, you might
be irritable at times, so go out of your way to treasure her as the
most important thing in your life. She'll be two thirds of your
cure.”

What to do next? There are still several weeks before my new
car was due to arrive. Why not risk the duff engine, drive to the
level crossing and walk a few yards up the hill? - that hill I had
struggled over immediately after being diagnosed.

This time it worked, by doing just-a-bit-at-a-time, and the
distance increased until the day when I ran out of hill. Try
something more ambitious, I thought, like a return to Ouseby Hoff,
and again climb those slopes where our children once played.

This was more like it, the car's engine spluttering and parking
itself within scent of the pines, my blood pumping vigorously at the
thought of something more ambitious to conquer.

Hopping over the fence and into the wood my adrenaline raced
faster, and raced even faster upon reaching the top. `Just a bit
further,' I enthused to the cones on the trees which seemed to be
crackling, throwing out seeds, as I walked further and further along
the ridge before turning back. `Idiot,' I shouted, damning myself,
scattering the pigeons from somewhere amongst the tops of the pines
as I struggled and slid in descent down the slope. `You've overdone
it again, silly bugger. Will you never learn?'

But this time I was lucky, being tired before too much damage
was done. Swimming would soon put that right. `Sorry, we're taking
industrial action next week,' the pool manager burying his
conscience beneath a graveyard of grievances as he turned me away.

`Oh dear, how sad, never mind,' I fought to suppress my anger.
`I'll see if my legs can come out in sympathy with your action.
Kind of walking to rule.'

Mind you, the strike did me a favour. It forced me to rejoin
that private pool where, the hotel mindful of profit, kept the water
several degrees colder - not the temperature I liked but one which
did me more good.

It had been an ill wind which had tussled and pushed me to use
their side door which was signed "NO WAY OUT" to prevent residents
from leaving without settling their bills. Once inside it never
occurred to anyone to ask for my membership fee as I swam up and
down. Well, the place was almost empty, and I was helping to warm up
their water. Besides, think of the taxes I was saving them by
keeping myself fit and not calling upon the National Health Service
for treatment.

`You'll be coming to see me, won't you?' Mother telephoned when
she heard that my new car had arrived. By now she was living by the
sea, having moved there to be near to my brother. This is not what
he had planned, having changed jobs just to escape after assuring
her that he had given up his girl friend in an effort to forestall
her pursuit.

Better get it over and done with, I thought, redialling whilst
the phone was still in my hand. `Hello, Peter, do you fancy going
out for a drink if I call to see Mother?'

`Certainly do. Why not ask if she'll put you up for the
weekend?' he suggested, `Then we can go for a meal.'

`OK. How about if I see you at her flat, this Saturday?'

`Ah, bit of a problem. Best if we meet by her steps, next to
the sea, immediately in front of her...,' he mentally shuffled,
using vague reasons before adding, `Don't forget, nine o'clock,
sharp.'

That's my Peter, evasive as ever. Wonder what he's up to this
time? I smiled whilst driving over the moors, past Fylingdale's
Early Warning Station. He's one phenomenon they'll never track down.

The moors ended. Blue Bank, fields falling steeply, sheep
bleating behind me and, in the distance, through blue haze, the
ruins of Whitby Abbey. I drove along the coast. There it is,
Mother's flat, top floor of a former hotel trapped between sea and
cliff - close to God's hand in Summer, dependent upon the Devil's
humour for the rest of the year. Good thing I was fit again, ten
flights of stairs, goodness knows how she manages.

`Of course I get out for a walk,' she reacted, `They don't give
free rides to pensioners around here.'

Even as I trod carefully back down the steep stairs to go out
with Peter she continued to rant. `Get a move on, I climb these
steps several times a day.' An oppression pored over the landing.
`When will you be back?'

He arrived, exactly on time, with car door flung open in
gangster getaway fashion with his moll in the back. So this is the
other woman, I smiled? A different one, I bet one Mother had not
bargained for when she moved to the coast, but a replacement to
target her current hate on.

It was after midnight when Peter gave me a lift back. `I'm
all right, drop me here,' I assured him.

`No,' he insisted, shepherding me closer until we reached the
side door. I eased my hand onto the latch, silently, yet it clicked
in the echoing darkness. He stopped, ears pricked. A light switched
on, piercing the night. `Who did that?' I muttered, and made as to
start climbing the stairs. But he was silent, frozen against the
outside wall.

Upon the top landing I discovered the answer. It was Mother who
had put on the light. She was crouching, also in hiding. The pair
of them in a war of attrition, repelled by a foetal attraction.

`Was she with him, Poison Ivy?' mother's whisper savaging the
silence, her psyche in ferment. The air was electric. My stress
level rose, a neural barometer in the path of her storm.

First thing tomorrow I'm off, I decided, desperate for retreat
in any Quaker meeting in time.

It took me three weeks to unwind. Back in Whitby pacts and
alliances were being redefined between Mother and Peter. Not an
example of Glasnost, more of a tidal relationship where the other
woman moved out when mother moved in.

`Is that you, Martin?' it was Mother on the telephone, several
weeks later. `I'm in hospital, I've broken my knee, fell over whilst
taking Peter's dog for a walk.' Wretched thing had made a dash for
the cliffs whilst Mother hung on.

`That's his girl friend's animal, he doesn't have a dog.'

`Are you calling me a liar?'

I rang off before she poured more venom over me, the neap tide
had passed, the other woman moving back in.

After being discharged from hospital, in a tactical withdrawal,
Mother removed back to Leeds. `It's going to take months to
recover, confined to this house, but anywhere's better than being
stuck in that flat when Poison Ivy's around,' she ground away,
marooned, her leg stuck in the air.

Weeks passed. She began to learn what it was like being
dependent upon others. `The ambulance took me for physiotherapy
today, you know. Nice girl, she is, the physiotherapist,' Mother
having discovered a bit about being disabled. `You've no idea what
it's like using walking sticks.'

`Yes, they are difficult, aren't they?'

`Sorry, I forgot,' she corrected herself, then immediately
forgot her forget and continued her story, barely pausing for
breath. `And do you know, whilst I was seeing this physiotherapist
girl, someone delivered a huge bouquet of flowers to her? Who on
earth sent them? I asked - you know how I hate flowers being cut -
and do you know what she said? My husband, she said. What on earth
did he want to send those for? I asked. Because he loves me, she
replied.'

Was this Mother's first glimpse in a world where relationships
involving sentiment were not considered a sin? After ninety years
was fate showing her what she had missed? Poor Father, how he would
have liked to play such games.

`And another thing, do you know what Poison Ivy did?' her
venture into normality yielded as she reverted to talking about
Peter's girl friend again. Still, she had made a start.

Yet it was too much for one day. `You'll have to excuse me, I'm
late for oxygen,' I checked with the clock and left in a hurry. She
still had a lot to learn.

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

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