50

Sadie

IF I WERE to say what I’d like to, which was that a miracle occurred at Wishaw Hospital that night and I didn’t need the surgery, it wouldn’t be entirely true. Because it turned out my very unfashionable obstruction was definitely not going to go away on its own. So there went that theory, once and for all.

“I trust you understand how seriously you need to take your situation Mrs., er, um...” The doctor I’d mistaken for an intern was so young and frail he was practically buckling under the weight of my medical chart. “Um... Foreman. Yes, Mrs. Foreman.” I was surprised he could read at his age. “I’ve seen people come very close to death from an obstruction not even half as bad as yours, you know.”

I was very tempted to say, “Have you? Have you really? Where was that then, kindergarten?” I didn’t, though, because blaming the poor little guy for a hatchet job some absentminded surgeon did on me more than three decades ago was probably a bit unfair, considering he probably wasn’t even born back then.

“I do, I do take it seriously,” I said. “But it can wait a couple of weeks or so, right? The nurse said if...”

“Mrs. Foreman. It’s really not advisable to delay these things for too long. It’s quite a simple operation and...”

“Miss. It’s Miss Foreman. Mrs. Foreman’s already dead, and I get it. Of course. Not advisable. Understood. On the record. But possible, right? I mean, I’m not likely to drop dead in the next couple of days now it’s under control, if I understand the situation correctly?”

“Well, no. It’s not very likely you’d...er...be rendered deceased in the foreseeable future, but I strongly...um, recommend you...er, well...”

I almost felt sorry for him. The chance to get in there and clear out my pipes might have been his first big break, for all I knew. He’d probably been planning his little anesthetized archaeological dig all night. But I had someone else’s big break to get to, thanks very much.

“Great! Wonderful! It’s a plan, then!”

So, after a bit more blustering about it being very much against his better judgment the doctor reluctantly signed my escape warrant. Whether that was due to the compelling case I’d put forward or he just wanted to get rid of me so he didn’t have to listen to me misuse the word “stat” at every opportunity just for emphasis wasn’t clear. But I didn’t care. There was no way I was spending one more minute than I had to lying in that Scottish hospital away from Norman. Getting Junior’s grudging blessing was merely the skin around my haggis.

In the end, though, despite winning the battle I had no intention of losing, what with all the temperature taking, poking and prodding and promising to see my GP as soon as I got back to Penzance, it was eleven o’clock before I got the sign off from the hospital. And then it was another half an hour before Leonard arrived, without Norman, because he was apparently getting in some last-minute practice back at the Soft Fudge.