Graduation Day

Friday 2^nd November was a day we had been looking forward to. It was Gillian’s graduation ceremony at Guildford Cathedral.

The day dawned bright and sunny, with a brisk wind. Gillian and Paul left early to collect Gillian’s gown and cap. I left later to drive Marnie, Kiri and Callum to Guildford. Barry stayed at home with the seven dogs and Winston. Sitting on a hard seat for several hours was not an option with his wonky knees and latterly aggravated hips.

Guildford Cathedral celebrated its half-century in 2011. Construction was started before the beginning of WWII then halted during the war. Building work was delayed for some years after the end of the war, lack of money being the prime reason. Indeed, people were encouraged to ‘buy a brick’ to help the completion.

In subsequent years etched glass and stone sculptures have been added to what is a very plain brick structure, somewhat utilitarian in appearance. The interior is rather different. It is a building full of light and space and has an extraordinarily peaceful atmosphere. There is very little in the way of stained glass, a circular window above the high altar and arched windows at the opposite end of the nave, above the West Front, and a couple of other small works. The vaulted ceiling soars overhead with inset lights.

Above the High Altar

 The vaulted ceiling above the Nave

Windows above the West Front

As the gowned dignitaries of the university prepared to process I was suddenly aware of a problem. I told Callum, ‘I need to find a loo’ and quickly exited the cathedral, heaving and hoping I wasn’t going to create work for the cleaners. Concerned helpers escorted me outside and alerted the Red Cross volunteers. All I wanted was to be left alone in the cold, fresh air, but these kind folks asked me questions, took my blood pressure, checked my pulse. I knew what was wrong. Before leaving home I had gulped some Gaviscon (a heartburn/indigestion antacid liquid). This is something I do if I am feeling queasy – I have a ‘nervous’ stomach. Unfortunately, in a hurry, I grabbed the wrong bottle, shook it vigorously and took a swig. As soon as it hit my mouth I realised it was calamine lotion. I looked at the label: Warning. For external use only. Well, I knew that but really I was checking instructions. They didn't say anything about seeking immediate medical advice so I was reassured. Plans need not be changed. I rinsed my mouth with mouthwash, swallowed some Gaviscon, got the children in the car and proceeded to Guildford.

Now, I haven’t a nervous disposition, I’m not easily disturbed, but even so, I don’t think the second Red Cross man’s opening remark to me was particularly diplomatic. ‘I hear you’ve been trying to commit suicide,’ he said. I laughed, rather grimly, it’s true, but I laughed.

‘You’ll have to go to A and E (Accident and Emergency)’  I groaned.  He said I could drive there. The only problem was that my car was in a city car park, not outside the cathedral. The children and I had taken a shuttle bus from it to the cathedral and I had no idea how to get back to it. So, he phoned the ambulance service. Eventually, two impossibly young and very charming paramedics arrived, took me through all the questions again and deposited me at the hospital, where I waited and waited and waited. 

The department was very quiet – I’ve never seen an A&E department so empty. Finally, a doctor saw me, asked the same questions and told me not to worry. (I wasn't worried, just fed up with myself.)

‘It’s inert,’ he said of the calamine. ‘Your body will get rid of it. You could have taken a glass of water or milk to neutralise it.’

Meanwhile, back at the cathedral, Gillian and Paul were wondering what was going on. As I was about to phone Paul, he phoned me. I told him not to worry, I was perfectly all right, and he and Gillian and the children were to go on to the reception. I would find my way back to the car and go home. At this point I wasn’t quite sure how I would achieve this but I’m quite a positive person. I knew the name of the road!

The cathedral stands on a hill, a noticeable landmark. With that in view, I set off in what I hoped was the right direction. I soon found myself walking along a dual carriageway so retraced my steps, found an out-of-town supermarket and phoned for a taxi that took me to the station. The car park was near a railway line but it was not the station car park. Hey ho! As I tramped along the road a vehicle sounded its horn behind me. Lo and behold, it was Paul. I thanked him but I was cross with him, too. He took me to the car park where Gillian was waiting, still in cap and gown.

Her first words were, ‘I was worried sick.’ Then she said, ‘The only good thing is that Dad doesn’t know anything about this.’ 

Barry has a tendency to go into Superman mode, moving heaven and earth and anything in his way to achieve his ends. This usually results in many people rushing round like crazed ants to do his bidding.

Later she said, ‘You could have been mugged.’

Marnie said, ‘She had the SatNav in her bag; she could have used that.’

I would have found the car park – I was on the right road – but I am an idiot . . .

I missed Gillian's graduation . . .

The Graduates walk along the Nave after graduation

Outside Guildford Cathedral - the traditional 'caps in the air' ceremony

Gillian, B.A. (Hons) 

Hands, knees and boomps-a-daisy . . .

Barry is the Fire Master in our house. I can light a fire – I can even keep it going but his method is infinitely superior, naturally. He settles to the stove with a will – cleaning and polishing the glass (which isn't actually glass but ceramic) with newspaper, scouring pad and a solution of water and washing-up liquid. The fire is carefully laid – scrunched-up paper, kindling, coal and finally, when the monster is roaring, logs. I lay it exactly the same way but my efforts are not rewarded with the resplendent dancing flames which Barry achieves. My fires sulk! He cares for it as tenderly as for an infant, checking on its progress throughout its burning life. Woe betide me if he goes out leaving me in charge and the furnace expires.
Barry sits down for fire-lighting duty. He has a nifty little lightweight folding three-legged seat called a 'Walkstool' and I have one too. We bought them so that we could take them out to sit and watch and photograph the wildlife in the forest. They're made by a Swedish company and we have been very pleased with them.
Yesterday evening, while sitting on this handy stool feeding wood into the maws of a greedy fire, he suddenly found himself on the floor. The seat had collapsed! One of the legs had come adrift – the metal holding the legs together had sheared dumping him unceremoniously and extremely painfully on the deck. Barry has wonky legs – too many sports injuries through the years have left him frequently hobbling, often wallowing like a ship in a storm, and so he spends many hours exercising to build up muscles to support his less than brilliant joints. Unfortunately his legs were at an awkward angle as he fell and took the brunt of his fall. Gus thought he was playing and tried to join in, the rest of the dogs looked anxious lest they should be blamed for his misfortune and the cats, as is their wont, made themselves scarce. It is fortunate that he fell backwards and not forwards onto the cast iron stove.
After a few moments, during which mentally I ran through emergency drills, the pain became less severe and he struggled to his feet. Disbelievingly we examined the stool and he emailed the company to report the incident. They replied very promptly, offering profuse apologies and a replacement. The rest of the evening passed without incident, Barry relying on a walking stick to limp around the house. He has strong pain-killers in reserve for occasions when the pain in his legs becomes too great and so took one and we repaired to bed. He passed a very restless, agonizing night, unable to find a comfortable position and decided this morning that perhaps he should try to acquire some crutches to make walking easier.
He phoned the doctor's surgery to inquire about crutches and was told brusquely by the receptionist that they didn't have them there and he'd have to hire them. Politely, he asked if he should see a doctor in order to check the damage to his legs, and was passed on to a nurse who told him to go to the hospital A and E (Accident and Emergency) department. Now, no-one goes to A&E if they can avoid it because unless there's a limb hanging off or breathing has ceased a long wait of several hours ensues. It is increasingly the case that patients are referred to hospital where once upon a time matters would have been dealt with at the local surgery. Eventually, he was reluctantly offered an appointment for late morning. It is unfortunate, though not uncommon, that the first contact with one's General Practitioner is routed through reception staff who sometimes seem unwilling to expose their doctors to the public and can be quite intransigent. It transpired that Barry had damaged his cruciate ligament and might have cracked a bone. The doctor Barry saw was an Army medic so they exchanged a few khaki yarns and Barry discovered that he didn't need to go to a hospital for an x-ray – a local health clinic had the required facilities.
This afternoon he went to have his legs x-rayed. The information will be relayed to our local surgery electronically and the results phoned through to Barry once the doctor has seen them. The radiographer said, 'Your knees are ruined, aren't they? There's no cartilage left in the left knee – bone is grinding on bone.' Barry nodded – he only had one cartilage in that knee anyway, one having been removed in his twenties.
'You must be in a lot of pain,' said the radiographer chattily.
Barry agreed that sometimes the pain was worse than others.
'You must be very brave,' concluded the radiographer. This came as news to Barry. He doesn't think he's brave – he just gets on with life (Oh, my hero!)
The upshot of all this is that he didn't get any crutches but received heavy hints that maybe it was time he had some new knees. Much as he is anxious to avoid the surgeon's knife the prospect of pain-free legs is tempting. The longer he delays invasive treatment the greater the chance of improved surgical techniques. So, very soon he'll be visiting the consultant at Windsor Knee Clinic to discover what's new in knees this year! He last saw him two years ago when he was advised to stop running immediately – and seriously, he is brave because he loved cross-country running and still really misses it.
However, Barry is philosophical and an optimist. He is strong and healthy (apart from his wonky legs!) and has a large and loving family, many interests and an inquiring mind. Life is never dull with him!