Page 24 of Wish You Were Here
‘Oh, right,’ I say, although my mind is already thinking about what I’m going to say to Lou when I see him today, and not what Big Mo from 7B looks like naked.
Is it possible that Lou doesn't even have a son? I’m starting to think that maybe the Lou Sanders I think I know, isn’t real.
Maybe his cognitive decline is worse than we think, and he imagined everything, or perhaps there is just an issue with the computer and everything Lou says is true.
I know Rhonda said the computer never lies, but it also only knows what she has entered, and do I trust her administration skills when her office is one small mistake away from going up in flames?
I know the only way to get to the bottom of it is to ask Lou straight.
The thing with Lou is that he can be quite aggro, and I have seen him spit the dummy out before about things far less important than this.
I once saw him threaten to fight someone over a chicken parma.
I knock on the door, walk into Lou’s room and he’s still in bed.
I checked with the nurse who did the morning rounds and she said Lou isn’t doing great.
He has general age-related physical and cognitive decline, and the fact he hasn’t led a particularly healthy life doesn’t help.
He smoked heavily until recently, drank too much, ate too much red meat, has high blood pressure, high cholesterol, signs of kidney disease and most importantly, he seems to have given up on life.
He also refuses to take medicine because he says, ‘it’s just going to prolong the fucking inevitable, eh’.
He’s being monitored as someone who might need to be moved into the care facility, which I know is the last thing Lou would want.
Once in there and the doors close, that’s it.
They attach you to a machine and pump you full of medicine to keep you comfortable until eventually you pass away.
The residents call it ‘God’s waiting room’.
‘Morning, Lou,’ I say brightly, hoping for something of a reaction. When Lou first moved in, he was talkative, full of life and had an opinion about everything. ‘How you going?’
‘Shit,’ says Lou, still in his pyjamas, and according to reports, he didn’t make it down for brekky again.
They brought him a couple of slices of toast to eat in bed, but I see it’s still there and untouched.
Cold, slightly burnt and covered with a thick layer of butter.
There’s also a cold cup of tea next to it, also untouched.
‘Sorry,’ I say, pulling a chair across and sitting down. ‘You know it’s almost December.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah, Lou. Chrissy is just around the corner.’
‘You still not shagging?’
‘That’s not … I wasn’t going to talk about that. I wanted to discuss—’
‘Because you know the best present for a dying man.’
‘You’re not dying, Lou.’
‘Fucking feels like it.’
‘Have you told the nurses how you feel?’
‘No fucking point, eh. They’ll just stick me in the death centre with all the other fucking dying people. I’d rather cark it in my own bed, thanks very much, love.’
‘Fair enough, but you aren’t dying, Lou.’
‘Doctor now, are you?’
‘No, but—’
‘Then don’t tell me I’m not fucking dying, when I’m as crook as a Rookwood!’
‘Fine, you’re dying, Lou, which makes me think about your son. Do you want us to call him? Tell him you’re crook, and he should come and visit before you cark it?’
I realise I am being a little insensitive and blunt, but this is Lou. Insensitive and blunt are two of his favourite things.
‘Like I said, love, he’s busy. He’ll be off all over the place. No time for me.’
‘But surely if I explain to him how sick you are, Lou, he’d want to see you.’
‘Just let it go, eh.’
I look at Lou in his bed and it makes me so sad to think he’s lying about his son, and why he has no-one as an emergency contact.
Doesn’t he have anyone? Surely in his whole life, he must have someone who cares about him.
Someone who will miss him when he’s gone.
I know he wants me to stop asking him questions and to let it go, but I can’t.
We’ve always had such a good, light-hearted relationship, and I let him joke about seeing my tits, but I don’t want him to die on his own.
If there is one thing I have learnt from Lou Sanders, it’s that sometimes in life, things are worth fighting for.
In his case, it was a chicken parma, but still, the point is valid.
‘I’m sorry, Lou, but I can’t let it go. Do you have a contact number for your son? I can call him for you, make arrangements.’
‘I said, let it go,’ says Lou, slightly more aggressively.
‘I’m sorry, Lou, but I need to know what’s really going on with your son. I need—’
‘Get the fuck out of my room. Now!’ shouts Lou suddenly.
‘But I’m just trying to help.’
‘Fucking sticky beak! Get out of my room or I’ll call for fucking help!’
‘Okay, fine, I’m going,’ I say, and this time I do. This time I know I need to leave, but it isn't the end of it. I have to find out the truth about Lou’s son before it’s too late.