The Demise of Roland Ratso: Chaper twelve and a half

Saturday night and it’s like bloody Picadilly Circus. The mysterious man is having lots of attention. Alarms are bleeping, nurses in and out and hushed conversations. I fear the worst for him. Sunday morning and we are up bright and early. No lie ins in hospital. Probably not healthy! Breakfast consists of porridge, cereals and toast. The porridge is made with milk (I make mine with water) but I manage to eat it. The man who arrived late on Saturday is called Mark, forty one years old. He had an extremely bad and frightening reaction on Thursday night and finished up calling three nines and was taken to Queens. He thought he was on his way to meet his maker. Mark was being investigated for a growth up his bum – so big that it wouldn’t allow him to sit down comfortably. In fact he said that if it got much bigger it would be waving at people! He didn’t know what was wrong. First they discussed prostrate, then bowel and then possibly lymphoma. Hopefully he would see the consultant on Monday and finally know his fate. The man who we thought was on his way out was getting ready to be discharged. “Where have you got it?” he asked. “Bowel cancer, “ I replied. “They thought that was what I had got but it turned out to be lymphoma. They’ve been deciding all week whether to give me a blood transfusion and now they are sending me home.” Bit of a result there then. It looks like all of the hard work paid off. Malcolm wasn’t impressed. “Up and down all night – not a minutes sleep. Every time I doze off someone comes along to torment me!”