The day my mother and I were about to visit Peter in hospital, I realized that he would look very swollen, not at all like his normal self, so I decided to give my mother a stern warning. “Now, Mother”, I said firmly, “no amateur dramatics, please! You know that Peter’s face is going to look misshapen, and badly bruised, but we have been told that the surgery went well. We know he is being well looked after, so there is no need to worry. He will be back to normal within no time at all. You do realize all of this, don’t you? So, he really doesn’t need to see you pass out. Just stay calm and think rationally. He is going to be fine. OK?”
“Yes”, she agreed. “I know. I’ll be OK, I’m sure. Don’t worry about me.”
So off we went to the hospital, a single-story, stucco-ed building in the suburbs of Salisbury (Rhodesia) where we lived. The building didn’t look at all like a regular hospital. It had a central quadrangle and open corridors with archways overlooking luscious gardens. It was a pretty place with its flowers, shrubs, and trees. The nurses were all nuns. This small hospital maintained a high standard of efficiency, and had an excellent surgical reputation, too.
When we arrived, my mother enquired as to Peter’s whereabouts. We then made our way towards the ward, with me hanging onto to my mother, partly to give her comfort and strength, knowing that I was right there beside her, and partly to make sure that she stayed upright and didn’t cause an embarrassing scene by fainting upon arrival.
We found Peter, lying in his bed, at the nearest end of a small ward.
So, what happened next, then?
I am proud to say that my mother behaved impeccably and that nothing happened. The former was true, at least. My mother did not pass out. She was calm, taking in the sight of her youngest child lying there looking anything but well. However, yours truly here took one glance at my poor brother swathed in bandages, appearing so very fragile in that hospital bed, and managed to gasp, “Oh my heavens, Peter looks terrible”, before I keeled over onto the floor at the end of Peter’s bed.
I vaguely remember being ushered out of the ward to the nurses’ station at the end of the corridor, where I was made to sit down and given time to get myself together again. I think someone even fetched a wheelchair for me. I was embarrassed to be the source of so much attention. After all, I had been the one advocating for staying calm and thinking rationally. Yet, here I was, in the nurses’ station, with all such thoughts abandoned as soon as I had seen my younger brother’s pitiful state.
What could I say or do?
Nothing.
I was obviously my mother’s daughter, in more ways than I realized.
