Charlie Chaplain’s Tales
When my late wife, Helen, underwent not-too-wonderful reconstruction at a certain hospital in Livingston, she was drugged up to the eyeballs with morphine, other heavy duty analgesics as befits such radical surgery and the emotional trauma that is co-terminus with it.
After a couple of nights – post operation – she got out of her bed, opened the door and, in a total daze, wandered down the corridor toward the exit.
The crackle of dim-wit nurses at the station, looking up from comparing their “adventures” and showing off their latest phone photos, suddenly noticed this disorientated woman heading toward the door.
“What are you doing, Helen?” patronisingly
“I need to speak to my husband”
“Back to bed with you”
No suggestion that they would phone me in the morning to say that she was distressed.
The next morning, she apologised.
And the response: “Don’t worry – it…
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