Is my agitation about them real? Or am I remembering hers? It was virtually empty when we arrived. And the receptionist, though a trifle offhand allowed him to stay (regardless of all the notices saying that outpatients should be unaccompanied) with the proviso that if the radiologist said he had to leave he must. In the end he wasn’t able to come in with me. The radiographer was apologetic pointing at the sign saying that only 3 people were permitted. The number three was in red. He was a nice man with a tall, rangy body. Every patch of bare skin was tattooed, including his shaven head. But his kindness and compassion was evident in the way he treated the elderly lady they wheeled out prior to my going in. She looked so frail, though her body was not insubstantial. Her skin, though pale, was bruised. It is a place of pain, sickness and dying. I felt the heaviness of it. The room was clean and neat. I lay on the bed and revealed my stomach in readiness for the cold wetness of the gel, and stared up at the muted ceiling light. I instantly forgot the doctor’s name, though the radiographer introduced him to me. He was colder than the other man and gave little away other than to ask if I had arthritis in my hips or if I’d ever had an MRI to look at them. I wasn’t expecting that. Shit, I thought, is that the issue? No, I said, to both questions. Nice coat, said that radiographer as I got dressed. They cost about £800 in this country, he said. Yes, I said, I bought it in Norway and it was like taking out a second mortgage. Another pee and then we went home. We walked later and sat where I’d sat the day before and looked out at the sea.
