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Many years ago, grandmother Mireya and I played a seemingly childish (but in reality deeply profound) game. The key objective was simple: make light of the massively debilitating stroke she had suffered decades earlier. The key question: could we get the most elegant, classiest of ladies to belt out (with a little verbal support from her grandson) the finale of that most salacious of Spanish words ‘hijue ...' ... PUTA!!!! (cue infantile laughter) To this day, as she approaches her 80th birthday, Mireya often explains the stark contrast between the clarity of the words in her 'head' with her inability to express them. I always thought I understood this explanation; but only a couple of days ago did I really 'get' what she meant. *** Rewind half-a-dozen weeks. I had started experiencing constant headaches. They didn't worry me much. I didn't give the 'obvious' explanation (brain tumour alert!) much credence: the pain was negligible, my past two years of scan results all invariably cheery. This changed on January 14: my oncologist informed me of a new, very small, non-contiguous lesion on my right hemisphere.The Terminator was ruminating again. Too small to stress about, too large to ignore for long. Duration to next scan would be severely shortened. My health deteriorated over the following weeks. I felt run down and paused training. I experienced some odd back and neck strains. Something was up with my toothbrush—I began dribbling from my left side. My appetite disappeared. Headaches got increasingly intense. My left eye had started tearing up randomly, and I could no longer wink with it (but had I ever had that ability?). I spoke separately with my top two doctors. General agreement: remain alert, no sudden changes called for. On the afternoon of Sunday 31 January I finally looked into the mirror. The left side of my face was mostly paralysed. 'Hijue...' *** Sonder hit me the following day. Lunch conversation with Ingrid about my health suddenly struck in me an irrational, extraordinarily intense infantile-like terror when we broached the theme of 'strokes'. I became light-headed and felt that unless I brought my body's energy use to near-zero I'd pass out. I made an awkward lunge for the floor, Ingrid for her phone ('we need an ambulance on the double!’). I smashed into the ground with my right brow--blood everywhere. I turned myself over and we waited for the ambulance as Ingrid frantically wiped my forehead. As the medics ran through their routine tests I felt pretty calm. I knew I had to raise my game to calm the situation. Ingrid was probably in a bit of shock; Ernie couldn’t work out why I was telling him to return to his iPad. And then came the the medics’ questions. Name, birthdate, date today—easy. Then another; ‘yeah, I got this one, clear as day’. But couldn’t physically get it out of me. I shook my head, shrugged my shoulders, offered an apologetic expression. But rather than contemplate all the terrrible medical frights and terrors that awaited me, I must have produced a wry smile as I thought of Mireya. ‘Ayy abuelita, ayy Mireyita: hijuePUTA! Hijue... puta’. *** Having left the house in slippers & pj's--phone and charger within pockets—the next hour was particularly trippy. I gave the medics advice about the fastest route out of Richmond (‘quirky’ navigation system in the new vehicles? Did I hear that right? ). The sirens came on. I barely had time to outline my recent medical history during the quarter-hour race into hospital. Straight to A&E. Tongue twisters; co-ordination tests; visual challenges; undertake ECG whilst repeating medical history to doctor. Straight into CT scanner. Great. No sign of stroke. Send him to transition area, he’ll be fine. And indeed I was. The next 24 hours (vitals ‘monitoring’) were mostly restful. Even the alcoholic dude trying to escape the recovery ward (from the moment I arrived late Monday night to lunchtime the following day--escorted out by a team of police officers) served up several amusing moments. And my grizzled neighbour’s old-school radio served up some sweet blues and classic rock tunes. *** Tuesday, 1448. Almost outta here. WhatsApp from JD. Sweet, a video message from Mireya. Closing salutation? ‘Puta’. Well, really, what else was it going to be?  Comments are closed.
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