Festive knob-swabbers! If there’s one thing my pained and pus-stained hospitalisation has taught me it is this: that some visitors are such festering nosegays of mutilation that they should be picked off at the hospital gates by armed snipers. I know, I know, I expected to be enraged at being force-fed Nick Knowles via daytime TV but, no. Compared to the behaviour of some visiting-time ward-creepers I’d have let Knowles insert my catheter with his teeth. That’s because, even though the women who shared my ward were undergoing mastectomies, their male partners were the one really in need of cutthroat treatment.
I have never, in all of my gawping and bedridden days, seen such a motley band of blokes as those who haunted the mastectomy patients during my stay. That’s because even though their wives or girlfriends had kissed goodbye to one or both of their funbags they were incapable of dredging up empathy, sympathy, concern or even give-a-shitedness. One woman, who had lost her left breast, was routinely visited by her husband, a man who displayed such boredom at being with her that I swear he needed resuscitation himself. Oh, and then there was another woman who, having just lost both of her breasts, was bitterly harangued by her boyfriend because she didn’t phone him immediately upon waking from her fifteen hour anaesthetic.
What in the raggedy fuck is wrong with these people? And no, before you ask this isn’t about me wanting to stab men in the penis with an icicle, it’s about me wanting to stab malfunctioning visitors with an icicle. The problem is that all of these beings were furnished with scrotums because this was a female ward. For all I know the male ward might have been equally bereft of sentience. Seriously, I have no idea what it takes to arrive at your partner’s bedside after she’s gone through a cancer scare and the wholesale removal of her mammarian tankers, only to look as if you’d rather be picking the lint from under your own foreskin. It makes baboons look like evolutionary wonders.
Thing is, when Conjugal Kraken came a-visiting he was my window on the world, delivering unto me news, gossip, current affairs, biscuits and the daily idiocies of Kraken Junior. Even as I woke from my various anaesthetics he was ready and willing to enter into conversations which invariably involved me wittering about butterflies coming out of my nose or my alter ego, Stewie Griffin. Perhaps the poor bastard didn’t have chance to look bored. Then again perhaps he has enough human qualities to not treat his life partner as if she were maggoty roadkill.
And no, I don’t buy this intellectual wombleage that men are less communicative than women or less capable of dealing with illness. I mean, none of us want to sit by a hospital bed watching piss drip, drip, drip into the catheter bag that’s wedged up our loved one’s urethra but we do it because that’s what we sign up for when we agree to share a shitter for the next forty years. More to the point, we are supposed to do it cheerfully, lovingly and reassuringly, not least because we get to skip out of the hospital while said loved one is left behind to be prodded by trembling students.
I have no idea about the innermost feelings of these women after they’d received these gruesome visitations, but they weren’t smiling, relaxed or hopeful when their underwhelmed partners slunk from the ward at the chucking-out bell. In fact they looked as if they’d just been told that MRSA had set in to their chest wounds. Just what a woman needs when she’s sporting a c-cup on the left and a gaping scar on the right.
That’s why, the next time I set foot in a plastics ward, I want to see beds of men waving goodbye to anything from their testicles to their todgers as their wives and girlfriends mouth-breathe at the floor with the inanity of it all. Something tells me that unrelenting hours of stupefied silence over a bandaged cock will teach these guys a thing or two about reacting to a bodily disaster like a fucking waxwork. Now hand me a scalpel, will you? I have some changes to make.