I wrote the following monologue in response to a writing prompt from my friend, Natalie. She asked me to write from the perspective of someone who can’t get out of bed.
The prompt reminded me of my nana, who spent a month in hospital this summer after fracturing her leg. While she was in there, I visited her a few times a week. On some of those occasions, she had been given codeine to help her with her pain. Codeine and my nana’s imagination make an interesting combination…
The story went on to win first place in a contest run by domestic violence charity Equation, and I got to perform it at Waterstones, Nottingham. It’s being published in an anthology with Global Wordsmiths, coming out in January 2017!
Hello, my name is Lily Thompson and I am ‘Bed Ridden’. Have you ever thought about that phrase? ‘Bed Ridden’? What does it mean? I’m riding the bed? The world’s got rid of me at last: sent me to bed? I’ve heard the phrase all my life, bet you have too, but I’ve never really sat down and thought about it for long, realised how silly it is. I’ve plenty of time to sit down now. Maybe there’s another meaning of ‘ridden’ that I don’t know. Probably. There’s lots of meanings I don’t know: I left school at fourteen. Didn’t want to wear glasses to read the board, see. Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. Worked though, didn’t it? Married before my twentieth birthday. For what that’s worth, now. Now that I’m bedridden, no husband left to visit. And the NHS would have given me a bed anyway, whether Derek had been able to afford it or not.
My daughter Elaine was an English teacher, before she retired. She’ll know what bed ridden means. Or my granddaughter: she’s an English teacher too. Makes me wonder if being stupid isn’t in my bones after all, as me mother was fond of saying. I did a test for dementia once, with one of the carers. My score came up as ‘mild something impairment’. Can’t remember the middle word. Typical. Elaine told them about me leaving school at fourteen and they noted it down, said it was a handicap, gave me an extra point. Didn’t matter, I was still mildly impaired. Not impaired enough for a diagnosis, too impaired to rule it out. None the wiser then, on the stupidity front. I said to them – what’s the point in all of this, anyway? To embarrass me? Isn’t Parkinson’s and a missing breast and a dead husband handicap enough? The only handicap Derek had was a ten in golf. That bloody man breezed through life. I’ll always look after you, Lily love, he told me. Stick with me, duck, I were born lucky. Well where are you now, ey, my lucky duck?
Bed ridden. Chair ridden. Same blummin’ difference. I’ve been ridden one way or another for years, since Parkinson’s lost me my licence. Well, the two crashes lost me my licence, but it was Parkinson’s fault. I’ve been doddering on me zimmer from bed to armchair for three years. Carers to make breakfast, carers to make tea, carers to wash my blummin’ privates. One cup of tea I wanted to make myself, tripped over me own feet. That’s what’s landed me here. But the bloody joke of it is that now that I’ve got a fractured leg, now that I’m bed-ridden, I’m on my feet more than ever. Blummin’ physiotherapy. Blummin’ nurse, barely out of nappies, telling me to think positive, think myself well. I lived through the war, duck! Ration books! I tell her all this, tell her to shove her positive mental attitude. She walks off, mutters what a sweet old lady. She says it so as I’ll hear, so I let her hear what I’ve got to say, too. I shout it. ‘If you want sweet old ladies, go to a W.I. meeting, duck, not a hospital ward! Old age is serious business, you cheeky cow!’ Sweet old lady, indeed. I was never a sweet young lady, why should I start being sweet now? I’m a human being, not a Werther’s Original! What was that poem Elaine was always going on about, for her O Levels? Rage against the dying of the light! No one told Dylan Thomas to keep his bloody chin up, I doubt.
The think positive nurse comes back. Gives me some pills, ‘for the pain sweetheart‘. ‘Thanks, love’. Even under all these wrinkles, even with the blue of my eyes dimmed to grey, my evil eye’s better than hers. Still got it, old girl, Derek would say.
I only realise its Codeine once it’s too late. They’ve been warned not to give it to me. On my little wall chart it says: ‘Lily, milk no sugar, no opiates (hallucinations)’. Too late. She’ll get away with it. Overworked NHS. Ah well. How much worse can it be? What was that advice mother gave me about my wedding night? Lie back and think of England? Poor mother. Who knows what she’d have made of the sixties. My wedding night was a blummin’ riot. Wouldn’t mind being that kind of bed ridden again.
Anyway, I don’t think of England. Not this time. In fact, I think of Kilimanjaro. That’s in Africa! My grandson went on an trip with his university a few weeks ago – he says he doesn’t mind doing it again if I fancy it, he wants to show me the view. We have fruit trifle in the cafe at the top. He has to leave for a cricket match, so I ask him to drop me off at the theatre on the way. Barbara and I tour London together. She looks amazing – best she’s looked since we were at school – her blonde hair in a bob, polka dot dress like she’s Marilyn. You don’t look bad for eighty-six Barb, I laugh, and she says we’re only young once, Lil, you’re looking pretty grand yourself, and she’s hoisting me up on to the stage. The actors don’t seem to mind, they’re clapping. Really, I ask her, you don’t think this is too much? I’m pointing down at my bush, which is as blonde as Barbara’s bob. Too much? She laughs. Do you see anyone complaining? If you’ve got it, Lil, flaunt it! So I do, firing rainbow lasers from my nipples which I don’t remember getting pierced but I tell you what, it looks blummin’ good: I should never have kicked up such a fuss when Elaine got her ears pierced, I should never have kicked up any fusses, I should have spent more time tap dancing naked under the spotlight. I will from now on.
I’ll wipe the ‘no’ off my little board, when I get back to the hospital. And the bit about hallucinations. I’ll add an exclamation mark, add three, I reckon I can get out of bed for that. Lily! Milk no sugar! Opiates! My granddaughter’ll complain, no doubt. ‘Come on, Nana’, she’ll say, in her concerned teacher voice. Bless her, she means well. ‘Come on Nana’, she’ll say, ‘we want you to walk again’, and I’ll say ‘listen ducky, I don’t need to walk, why walk when you can fly?’