Short story by Cathy Cade

I recognise the doctor, but I can’t remember his name. When have I met him before?

“Jean Carter?”

I stand and smile at him. He holds the door open while I limp across the waiting room. This could be one of the doctors who saw Bill for check-ups after his second hip replacement.

I’ve never been good at remembering names, even in my distant youth, but I can usually busk it through most encounters. I’m not usually good at recognising faces either – never have been. That’s a recognised condition; there’s a name for it – pro… pros… prognos… a long name.

I remember this face because he looks like an actor in that film… “The Usual Suspects” – that’s the film.

“Good afternoon, Jean, I’m Mr Franklin. Take a seat.”

He confirms my details, asks some questions about the pain, and types on his keyboard.

“I’d like you to go along for an x-ray. The imaging department is back along the main corridor and turn left; they’ll be expecting you. Then tell them at the reception desk when you’re back.”

In the x-ray department, they warn there will be a fifteen-minute delay and tell me to take a seat. I’m prepared for delays, although I’ve not had long to wait so far. I came by cab, so I didn’t need to allow time to find a parking space. I rummage in my bag for a pencil and unfold the page of puzzles from this morning’s newspaper.

I enjoy solving puzzles. Since retirement, I’ve widened my range. Now I tackle the word puzzles as well as number puzzles, although not those crosswords where half the clues are about celebrities I’ve never heard of. I’m hoping the puzzles will help to keep both sides of my brain active. Mum was already losing her marbles when she had the fall that ultimately led to her death. Sometimes, I think that fall was a blessing in disguise, although I’d never say so out loud.

This sudoku shouldn’t take long; it’s only a three-star. The print is blurry. Is that a six or an eight in the corner of that box? I polish my specs, but the tiny number still isn’t clear. I haven’t had these specs long. The optician at my eye test said I had cat… cata… – those things forming (catacomb, catapult, catalyst…) – cataracts.

For years I’ve been having to search for the word I want, so this is nothing recent. Listening to others, it seems common at our age. Like cataracts.

I noticed the word-searching happening well before I retired, and that was – heavens – almost fifteen years ago. I don’t think it’s got much worse. Words drift off in the pea soup of my brain, and I have to grope around for them. Everyday words become suddenly elusive, even words I used only yesterday without having to fish for them – like cataract.

That’ll be another operation, but I gather cataract surgery is effective and relatively trouble-free.

I’ve nearly finished this sudoku, despite the ambiguous digit. What’s that nine doing there? That row already has a nine; how did I not see it?

Carelessness. My school reports always used to say somewhere that I’d do better if I weren’t so careless. It’s true. I still scan when I’m reading and skim over the boring bits, although, heaven knows, I’ve no reason to hurry these days. I sometimes miss important information on a first read, especially in letters from clinics. 

Back in Orthopaedics, I tell the receptionist I’ve been for x-rays and she asks if the consultant is expecting me back. For a moment, I’m not sure.

I think he said to come back afterwards. “Yes… yes, he said to come back here.”

The receptionist seems uncertain. “He has a full list this afternoon. There’s another patient with him at the moment. Take a seat, and I’ll let him know you’re waiting.”

Where should I sit? Was I along this side of the waiting area last time?

When he called me in, he was standing… I’m almost sure that was the corridor he led me along. I take a seat directly opposite the door and watch as patients come through. Sure enough, the doctor appears after a short while and nods at me to follow him.

Seated back in his office, he moves his computer screen so I can see my x-ray. “You have arthritis in both hips.”

Really? “The left side doesn’t hurt at all. I suppose I ought to get something done about it, then, before the other side joins in.”

“One treatment option is painkilling injections, which may help. These wear off after a while and will need repeating. Or you can opt for a hip replacement.”

“Yes. My husband had both hips replaced.” So many years ago, now. “What do you recommend?”

“I think a replacement now would be advisable, while you’re in good health.”

Meaning, no doubt, that it’s unlikely to be good for much longer.

He runs through a list of things he needs to warn me about – like those hurried caveats at the end of adverts, only less garbled. “Is your husband at home to look after you?”

“He died last April – bowel cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He hands me the printed form. “The team will be in touch with details and a choice of dates. It will be two or three months.”

I sign in the spaces on his form. My handwriting crawls like an inky spider along the dotted lines. My writing’s always been terrible, unlike Bill’s, which was unexpectedly beautiful for someone who left school at fourteen with no qualifications. Until those last months, when his hand shook.

“Thank you,” I say to the doctor – what was his name? Standing, I straighten my spine gingerly. “Hopefully, the backache will ease up too when I’m not hobbling around on a dodgy hip.”

“No, there is arthritis at the base of your spine.” He points out the fuzzy discs on the x-ray.

Not everything can be fixed then, just the hips and the cataracts.

Not the backache. Or the knee twinges? I’ve heard knees can be dodgy to operate on, so I’m trying to keep them moving. The websites say I’ll have to stop some of those exercises, though, while the hip’s recovering.

My body’s ganging up on me. They say you’re only as old as you feel, but lurching out to the car park, I feel old. I’m sure my right leg has forgotten how to walk without limping.

Now, where did I park the car?