The beauty of shared emotions

When I was in Uganda there were a couple of times when I saw someone crying.  Someone else, often just acquaintances, would gently wipe the tears away using the palm of their hand.

Tales from the hospital part 2

If you had been admitted to hospital due to vomiting and seizures casued by advanced cancer, you probably wouldn't be able to do anything coherent other than stare at the wall and wait for lunch.  At least that's what I think I would be like.

Karin on the other hand, seemed to continue her fascination with people and the ward offered rich pickings for her social magnifying glass.  This is one of my favourite Facebook comments: she wrote it sat in the bed with her eyes watching the goings-on over the rim of her glasses, and when you read it I suspect you too will be transported there.  The white sheets, beige walls, wires and machines randomly dotted around the inert hump on each bed; piecemeal humanity.

Thinking back there is plenty for me to remember about Karin's stays in hospital as she seemed to bring her own very personal interpretation.  She loved being looked after (most memorably the man who brought the puddings round for the evening meal) but also the act of giving herself up to others so they could sort out the medication, the bed, even toilet trips.  And of course she loved watching what was going on;

In Praise of...Other people's stories.

The woman in the bed opposite has eight children. She is planning her discharge. Each one of her kids has visited today. At one point, they were all sitting around their mum together. The expression on her face alone could have lit the caves under The Lonely Mountain. The discharge nurse came to help them with their plans.

There was lively, good tempered chat between all the siblings and they kept looking at their mum to gauge her feelings on what they were talking about. Eventually, with big smiles, they saw the discharge nurse off. Whatever decision was reached was amicable and very obviously in perfect concordance with the wishes of their mum. No args, no pissed off youngest sibling, no gritted teeth, no thumping of fists on the hospital table. I wonder how many families could achieve that?

Then one of the daughters held a finger in the air. "Got something to tell you," was the message.

They all sat back in their chairs waiting for the story. I could tell it was a good one by the daughter's face.

"Cantonese Cantonese cantoneeeeeeese Cantonese" she began. (It may have been Mandarin, I don't know.) Her siblings nodded, several of them sitting forward in interest. "Cantonese Cantonese Cantonese" she continued in hushed tones.

"Cantonese?"

The tone was obvious "Really?"

She nodded emphatically. "Canto-bloody-nese! And then he took off with it hard on his heels!"

Her audience gave knowing nods. I did not. Who took off? What was on his heels? Was there no descriptive phrase for that occurrence in Cantonese?

Now they were all leaning forward, heads propped on hands. Me too.

"Cantonese cantonese cantonese can-ton-ese." She stopped, looked around the circle collecting their eyes and mine. "Four-teen feet..."

Eyes widened, hands were thrown up in the air, mouths made big O's. I think I may have squealed.

"Fourteen feet???" No effing way!

She nodded again; Yes effing way! Don't argue with me, I saw it with my own eyes. "Four-teen feet."

It was the best story I've heard all week.