<b>Kishore Singh:</b> Why lying in bed is no comfort

Author is talking about chores that one is expected to do while lying on bed for post-operative care

If you’ve ever fantasised about lying in bed and being fed by hand while supine, banish the thought. For one, it is the deadliest, most boring of the seven deadly sins — or, at least, sloth is — and for another, the wife likes her sheets spotlessly clean, so even the thought of a stray crumb can cause her to forget that you are not lying amidst them by choice but because of post-operative care. People equate lying down — mandated by the surgeon-general, or, in my case, retina surgeon, which I think counts pretty high in the pecking order — with being on vacation, so my children leave me forms to fill, even though I still can’t see out of one eye, their files to sort through, and are irritated if I ask to do it a week later when I might have some form of sight back, even though they’ve maintained them in precisely that disorder over months or years. 

My wife is nothing if not a ministering angel, and I wouldn’t be saying this if she wasn’t taking dictation. Now that I am 100 per cent quarantined, both car and driver are hers to command. A couple of days back, she went to have her hair coloured and managed to attend a kitty lunch on the way out, and a high tea on the way back —Honey, I mean this in a good way! That evening, she went for a luxury store opening, a fashion preview (this is different from a fashion review) and a friend’s “special number” birthday. How can I ask her to spend time “that’s so boring” with me when there’s so much to do out there?

Some friends have been kind too. Sarla sent over pity pasta, so much of it I’ve been having it for breakfast, though it doesn’t taste as well with milk. Another friend sent over a pillow consisting of thermocol beans sewn into a woman’s lycra pyjama, which feels uncomfortable if you have to use it as a pillow. It’s worse since the kids decided to give it a name — Sexy Sadie — and slip briefs over it. My brother, sensibly, got me one of those airline pillows, which the doctor had recommended anyway, but conversation with him was heavy going — he’s not given to talking much, or at all. 

Meanwhile, my sphere of activity is as follows: I lie on my stomach, favouring the left cage of ribs, gazing down at the sheets (which, apart from the offending crumb, I have to report as spotlessly clean). Sometimes I sprawl to the left side of the bed; for a change, I shift to the right; or, I might turn around and repeat the process. Breaking for lunch, dinner and tea offers some respite, though I’m still not allowed to look up or around, and have another week to go before some form of reprieve might be offered. It’s lonely being in bed, and Sexy Sadie hasn’t made it easier.

Meanwhile, anyone who passes by the bedroom sideboard has orders to shove in a pill, or eye drops, though I’m never quite sure of their order, or quantity. Some of those medicines must be wrongly sequenced, for I find myself wide awake at night, and fast asleep during the day. The coffee tastes foul, the doctor hasn’t let me shampoo my hair in a week, the dog is sulking for not being allowed in bed, and damn if I am not hungry for some of that pasta — I might try it with apple compot.