Eight weeks

It is Monday. The sky stretches wide and blue behind the Belmont Hills.

The charge nurse comes in, sits on my bed.

I've heard from Queen Elizabeth Hospital but they can't take you for three months, she says.

What?! But I emailed them before I came in. They never talked about that kind of waiting list. How am I ever going to get going again if I'm waiting around that long?

She says, you're expecting too much of yourself. You've had major major surgery. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. You've done much better than anyone thought you would.

It's as if she's handed me the last piece in the jigsaw. All morning I fiddle around. I write thank-you cards. I imagine phoning up Queen Elizabeth Hospital and demanding some action. I imagine my desk, page 113my computer—everything at my finger-tips. I'm up and dressed, walking with crutches. What am I doing here? I ring the bell for the nurse. I need to go home, I say.

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