[Note to all keen visitors to the world of Crowther: tomorrow, Saturday 19th April, A Prince in Gangland, the first novel which deals with the young Dion Dalvad, Prince of Wales, will be free on Amazon.]
After last week's post, 'Bullet Points from the Sofa' (see below), about my 85-year old mother and her twin, it's only appropriate that I should return with an account of what transpired to the Mater in the meantime.
Along to the dim labyrinths of the notorious Narrow Door night club in Currock she went last Saturday night. It was the 50th birthday bash of Sissy's daughter Brenda. All was well, Mum was enjoying herself even though the horrendous bass and beat did go on--and on. It was a fairly good night, though she found it hard to chat.
It was when they were all about to leave that in the murk she failed to see a raised platform and walked right into it. She didn't have her glasses on but was using her stick, which failed to help. She lost her footing and went down and could not get up. (You would have thought the management could have turned the lights up in that dingy hole so people could see their way out--or didn't they want to dispel the mood?)
The paramedics were called after she had been perilously carried to the Foyer in a chair by a couple of concerned and fairly merry relatives.
My sister Amanda, who had arrived towards the end of the bash in order the take Mum home, got into her car and followed the paramedics who took her to the hospital. Mum seemed so well in herself though she couldn't stand up, that it was a shock when it was announced after an X-ray that she had a broken hip. Amanda was there till four in the morning, feeling guilty that as she was walking beside Mum she was so loaded down with containers of leftover food from the buffet that she wasn't able to catch her.
By the time I got to see her in the hospital which was the Monday afternoon, Mum had already had her operation and a hip replacement was as they say 'in situ'.
I had thought it was stupid to hold Brenda's 50th at the Narrow Door anyway, though I didn't realize it would present dangers for the older folk in attendance. That night spot has been notorious in the town for years under different names. Highlights have included stabbings, drug busts involving London gangs straight off the nearby train station, and a shooting or two.
Though the old girl said she enjoyed herself, what I heard about the night was not the greatest. For one thing Sissy's sixteen-year-old granddaughter Trixie was there with her girlfriend, a short-haired type who kept going out for a smoke. When she returned she would be all over Trixie. Then there was the 'jungle music', as Mum calls it, playing all night and at all volumes, and then there was the murkiness and the ramps and winding stairs to disreputable cozy-corners.
When Jade and I saw her in her hospital bed it was amazing how relaxed she looked.
She had just come out of the operating theatre and though we didn't know it, all those enquiring were being told not to visit until five o'clock, when she would be more with it. But we were there and the nurse looked surprised at first then seemed to decide that it was OK.
Mum had a drip in for antibiotics to help with a 'water infection' and a heart monitor peg on her finger, but she seemed serene. (They also gave her daily injections in the stomach to prevent blood clots.)
She'd had some morphine and I suppose she was high, man.
She looked up and said was it us, she thought she was dreaming.
The main thing was that her morale was up. At 85 she could cope with all this OK.
They were all amazed at her cheerfulness when she was taken down for surgery.
As Mum said though, she had to have it done, so there wasn't much use in being otherwise.