November, 2012. A party of doctors and nurses moved around the bed, plumping up pillows, checkin the bleeping machine, writing on clipboards; their shadows flashing around the whiter than white walls. Oscar Collins was sat in a plastic chair of a cramped ward – three beds on one side of the room and three on the other – each bed had a small cabinet next to it, with a television attached to a cantilevered bracket. All of the beds were empty, except for the one occupied by his mother. A nurse earlier suggested that she might be able to enjoy the bird-song from that spot. Oscar noticed a group of sparrows flitting around a half dead bush, but he knew that she would not be able to hear.
Oscar wondered why he felt so uncomfortable, then he realised it was because there was nothing to look at; the room had no colour except for white, cream and beige. Uniforms, beddings, curtains – even an abstract painting that was perhaps donated by a grateful former patient – conformed to this bland regime. To avoid staring at the staff, Oscar looked down at his feet. He saw that his trainers were greatly rundown compared to everything else in this spotless, germ-free world. The window was slightly open, and a cold draft came into contact with his face which made him shiver. He tried to suppress it. In order to not draw attention to himself, he said nothing.
It now looked as if the staff were ready to depart from his mother’s bed.
“You can try speaking to her now”, said a nurse, with a polite smile.
Oscar nodded in response, and carried his chair towards his mother. He sat still for a few moments, and then picked up her hand awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do next. She had no resistance when their hands touched. He was aware of his own heart beat being a lot quicker than the electronic beep on the other side of the bed. Questions filled his mind which he could not find answers to – should he cry now or later? Should he cry at all? A scene from a film came back to his memory, where relatives wept at the side of a loved one’s bed. Why were his eyes dry? Was he a bad son? How did things get this way? The pair had been inseparable for the past two decades, as she had always kept him occupied and entertained.
My Mother Only Said ...
by Tom Davison