The curse of surgical stockings

The porter rolled me off the trolley and on to the bed, wished me a good day and departed. My previous neighbour in the two-bedded ward — a frail, aloof, slow-moving African man — was gone. In his place was a visibly vigorous man of about my age with a charismatic, masculine face reminiscent of Anthony Quinn’s Zorba the Greek, except he had no front teeth. The wiry grey hair was closely scissored and he wore a sportive white polo shirt and black jog pants. Even in repose he looked dynamic.

A nurse entered to take my readings. Now I must drink plenty of water, she said, to flush out the clots. When she’d gone, Anthony Quinn fixed his dark eyes on mine and spoke. (Later I learned that he was Algerian Arab. In spite of living for most of his life in Marseille, his French wasn’t much better than mine. But we did our best.)

‘Water, my friend. You must drink water. Here, give me your jug.’ He sprang to his feet, filled my water jug from the tap in the lavatory and found me a paper cup. ‘Drink. Drink. Water is Allah’s gift, praise Him. What does Allah cause to fall from his sky? Carrots? No. Milk? No. Water. Water to heal and to bless. Water is life. Here, drink the healing water of Allah.’

While I wrestled with my stockings my ward companion hung his head in shame

I hadn’t drunk anything for 17 hours and I was glad to oblige the both of them. With that toothless, committed face of his — life is after all a momentous business — he watched me drink four cupfuls straight off, then cautioned a pause before I harmed myself.