Flux

wore a dog collar to identify himself as a man of the cloth.
    He must have seen the confusion on Iain’s face, “Apologies, I’m Tim, the hospital clergyman.”
    “Hi.”
    “Do you feel up to talking?”
    Iain nodded and shrugged at the same time. He didn’t really feel like a conversation about God. He was tired and wanted to be left alone for a while, but didn’t want to appear rude.
    “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
    Iain nodded in agreement and signalled towards the cup of water. Thirst now gripped him, ravaging his throat and lips. The clergyman passed the cup and Ian drank, spluttering a little as his throat was not yet used to swallowing. Tim took a tissue and gently wiped the expelled liquid from Iain’s chin.
    “I just wanted to introduce myself and let you know that if you ever need to talk about anything, feel a bit down or need some support then I’m here to help. I know an experience like yours can be, errm, difficult.”
    “OK, thanks.” Iain was grateful for the offer but didn’t know how a vicar could help and sank his head further into his pillow, his eyes half closing: A subtle hint to be left alone.
    Tim picked up on this, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to be preaching to you, I’m not that kind of guy. I’m literally here for moral and spiritual support when you need it.” He was very aware of not wanting to overstate his point or overstay his welcome.
    There was so much he wanted to ask but sensed that it was not a good time. “I’ll leave you in peace now but don’t forget where I am, and if you ever need anything…?”
    “Bye.” Iain thought that he might have hinted a little too hard but didn’t feel too guilty about it.
    “Bye then, see you soon.” And with that he gently shut the door behind him.
    Over the course of the next three weeks Iain made excellent progress in his recovery. In fact, the very next day Doctor Goodman seemed so pleased that she removed the drip from his vein and scrubbed out the words ‘fluids only’ from above the bed and didn’t replace them.
    A little while later, a chubby lady in an apron came and handed over a menu, asking him what he wanted for lunch. He chose the soup and when it came it was quite a moment. Having not eaten in so long, fed only through a tube in his arm, the smell was ravishing even though it was only tinned tomato.
    Using the button at the side of the bed, a nurse operated the electric motor to bend him into sitting position. Iain’s groan was louder than the creaking movement of the bed and the whirring of the small electric motor.
    He found the strength was also returning to his arms, even after such a short period. It was still an effort to lift spoon to his mouth but he managed it. Blowing to cool the thick red liquid, it burned a bit when lifted to his lips. He blew again and sucked it into his mouth. The taste was good.
    Halfway down the bowl, Iain became suddenly overcome with nausea. The nurse who’d stayed to guide him through the eating process had expected such a reaction. As if from nowhere a brown cardboard bowl was produced and held under Iain’s chin as he wretched and expelled the entire contents of his stomach, and some of the lining into it. He sent the food away.
    Left on his own, he felt frustrated with himself; if only he’d not been so greedy and eaten a little slower. He doubted that it would have made much of a difference. Disheartened at having the promise of a meal snatched away, his pessimistic voice spoke; telling him he was a fool to think that he was getting better. He was going to be in hospital for ever, wither away and die because he couldn’t eat.
    Optimism started to desert him and pessimism seemed to have the upper hand. Sinking into a pit of despair, the tears began to flow once more. Still sitting upright, his tender ribs hurt through sobbing and his stomach ached through the spasms of ejecting the soup. To say that Iain felt sorry for himself at that particular point in time would be rather an understatement.
    That’s when another voice entered into the jamboree in his head. This time it was not his own, being female and not one he recognised.
    “Stay strong and don’t despair.” The voice was tangible; had substance, coming from inside his head, but outside too.
    Iain’s pessimism was temporarily shocked into a stunned silence; replaced by confusion which was much more a feeling than conscious thought, like a proverbial slap to the face of someone who is