He’s fine - terribly swollen, his jaw is wired shut and he leaks blood if he’s not careful – much to Christopher’s amusement and my consternation. After he got home on Saturday night, he couldn’t fall asleep so he took a sleeping pill which was probably the reason he fainted.
When I arrive at the hospital he’s sitting up in bed drinking Lucozade from a plastic cup with a straw, and mumbling animatedly.
His Mum, Rosy, looks tired. “Can we get something for him to eat?” she asks, when the nurse comes over to take his pulse.
“I’ll have to check, but I’m sure it will be OK. Dinner’s finished for the night.”
I know the area so I suggest that Rosy and I walk to the supermarket.
“What flavour soup do you want?” I ask, as we turn to leave.
“Mmugarnam,” Christopher replies, the cord from his IV drip swinging.
The walk is longer than I remember. “We could have taken the car,” Rosy chides, as we hike up the hill. My legs ache from the slope and the lunges that my trainer explained would work the quadriceps, hamstrings and glutes. Especially the glutes, I note.
The supermarket is welcoming - lit up bright. We search for the yoghurt drinks and the milkshakes and the packet soups and a small package of wipes for the blood, deciding on things together and quickly. We choose soups without lumps or croutons, and a selection of flavoured milks. The checkout is the sort where you work the machine yourself. Rosy hasn’t seen them before so I show her how to scan the objects and place them on the shelf so the machine doesn’t scream at you and send an assistant running to the flashing red light, clutching a set of keys that will quiet the horrible noise.
It’s nearly dark when we get outside again.
“We got rather a lot, really,” Rosy says, holding up one of the carrier bags and noticing for the first time what we’ve bought, which, away from the warm glow of the supermarket, now seems a little excessive.