At Norwich in East Anglia for Graduations at the UEA

Still a bit of a palaver showering with a dicky arm: wrap bandaged arm in cling-film, put garbage bag over arm, sellotaping securely at either end, then tie cloth strips tightly at shoulder and wrist to mop up any encroaching water - then shower using one hand! Shaving is also a challenge, as is putting on socks...but the third task to completely defeat me was tying a Windsor knot in a tie. Solution: wife stands behind and does the tying. (The other two tasks that I’ve had to give up temporarily are driving and photography – grrrr!).

We were in Norwich yesterday, to attend younger son’s graduation from the University of East Anglia. The UEA is quite a contrast from Durham University, where elder son graduated three weeks ago. Durham University claims to be the third-oldest university in England and is located in a fairy-tale city of narrow cobbled streets, oak beamed buildings with a castle and a 920 year old cathedral set high on a hill in the centre of the city.

Norwich also has a Norman castle of similar vintage, but the university, founded about 50 years ago, is located in tranquil parkland four miles from the city centre. The surroundings are idyllic, green and pleasant with a small lake, but the buildings are mostly 1960s functional concrete.

It was very hot and, having struggled into a suit jacket, I gratefully escaped from it as soon as the studio photographs were over. ‘Our’ Congregation at 2.30pm was for the Norwich Business School of the university, with a high proportion of Chinese and African-origin candidates, business being a universal language. As usual, there were long queues for the temporary photo studios, and then queues to enter Congregation Hall.

temporary photo studios

The mace bearers led the procession of academic dignitaries and the presiding figure of the Vice Chancellor (resplendent in yellow and red robes) up to the stage where a highly decorative wooden chair was his temporary throne.

 

Then followed speeches and a procession of several hundred undergraduates, who crossed the stage momentarily grasped the Vice Chancellor’s and hand and disappeared off the other side instantaneously transformed from undergraduates into graduates, possessors of a parchment that conferred on them the title of Bachelor of Science in Business Management (or similar).

 

Afterwards, it was party time for the students, and a rush to dispose of jackets, neckties and high-heeled shoes. Amazingly, as we walked about I was hailed by a former work colleague who recognised me - although we had last met some 35+ years ago; he was attending his daughter’s graduation and left me with the slightly-worrying thought: did I look this decrepit 35+ years ago?

' O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!'

Dark Night of the Soul (and Arm)

It was exactly a week ago that it happened. It was 10pm and the house was full. My wife was in the kitchen, elder son on his computer, younger son entertaining six house guests, friends from university who were preparing to go out nightclubbing.

I was in the garage, and, as I turned to leave, I slipped on something, my feet shot out from under me and I fell backwards, unconsciously using my arms to break my fall. The resulting pain in my right elbow and arm was absolutely excruciating.

My immediate reaction was an urgent prayer; nothing profound, just a desperate "Lord help me!" that seemingly went unanswered. Then a much louder appeal that brought my wife running. She and elder son helped me to bed but, after 30 minutes of ice packs, the pain had hardly reduced so we crept out of the house, so as not to alarm the readying night-clubbers, and headed to the hospital’s Accident & Emergency Department.

There were about 15 patients waiting to be seen. Surprisingly for a Friday night, there were no argumentative drunks - yes, I’ve been to A&E on a weekend evening before. There was a group of six young girls in bathrobes - a hen party perhaps? – and they were all laughing uproariously, sharing  jokes and  miming being sick. For a moment, I wished that I could share whatever liquid or chemical had given them that intense and happy spirit.

For my part, the pain was coming in waves, it was a struggle not to moan or hunch over and I looked up hopefully each time a door opened or the tannoy announced the next patient. I felt down and, before I knew it, my occasional silent prayer had morphed into a bitter remonstration.  

‘I know you are here. So why aren’t You looking after me? Have I upset You? What have I done to deserve this? Is my daily prayer not long enough?  Or is regular weekly Mass and occasional daily ones insufficient? I thought there might be some credit for the regular confessions, the alms, pilgrimages, works of mercy....isn't that enough? What do I lack?’

After one hour and forty-five minutes I saw the duty doctor, who suspected that I had broken bones. In another hour I was being X-Rayed.

It was a very bad fracture; the two bones that go from the elbow to the wrist were both broken. Worse, the elbow bone itself was shattered into five or six pieces.

 

plastered and enjoying Dr. Morphine

Additional X-Rays, a scaffolding of plaster of Paris around the limb, medication courtesy of Dr Morphine – and suddenly I had recovered my usual good humour and was back to making small jokes. Then two porters pushed my bed along endless corridors, via lifts and even into the open air between buildings until we arrived at my destination, Grant's Ward in the main building of this 186-years-old hospital.

Next day, after lunch (for surgery staff only, obviously patients are on NBM – Nil By Mouth) came the three-hour operation with the insertion of a metal plate, screws and wires to try and repair the elbow. The anaesthetic was effective, and I woke to a completely numb arm. Another 24 hours later, I was discharged to recuperate at home.

This unfaithful God thing really upset me. For the first time in many years I’d missed my nightly Rosary while in A&E. At home, I was still in pain but the painkillers took the edge off. Although I had to sit (and try and sleep) propped up on cushions in bed, it was infinitely more comfortable than being in hospital; super service from the wife, kindly ribbing by the sons, Sky tv, old photography magazines, internet access...what more could one ask for?

Of course I resumed the Rosary and the other nightly prayers. Already I was regretting the momentary loss of trust, the sudden transformation of love and service into a commercial act.  I knew He would take His time. And He did. The answers when they came were very quiet, seeping into my (more-receptive) consciousness over several days.

‘I was always with you, even during the worst bits. There is no relationship between your actions and My father’s will, which is a mystery. Aim to be perfect, as My father is, that’s the only benchmark. And remember that I love you without qualification - especially when you fall. Trust Me, reflect My love and think on the lessons you have learned.’

True, there were so many examples of love in action...the kind manner of professional nurses like Jim on Grant Ward that went far beyond mere duty, the thoughtful and caring shepherding by the porters; the patients desperate for a little conversation – or even someone to listen to them – and the other patients who met that need, despite their own pain and worries; how one young patient helped an elderly one to the toilet, fussing over him despite being recently out of surgery himself; how time stands still when you desperately want it to move on, and the kindly enquiry from a neighbouring bed that suddenly unglues time...

He said more but when your memory is a little woozy and you are single-finger typing with the ‘wrong’ hand, well, there has to be a limit.

Even my nightly reading of extracts from Saint Theresa of Calcutta had something to say to me. Last night she didn’t pull any punches: ‘Bitterness and pride are twin sisters – moodiness goes with them...Do not go to the altar of God with them in your heart. Go with a pure heart. A pure heart will see God.’

Seven days later, things are much improved. I can wiggle the fingers of my damaged right arm but not hold or use a pen. Going to the bathroom, eating and drinking, shaving, showering, getting dressed are all a bit of a trial.

But things are slowly improving...and I'm talking to Him again, not at Him.

Durham

Well, it’s been a few weeks since the last post, the white coats have done their best but the mystery of my condition remains. I guess the best remedy for the unknown is to keep busy, fight the temptation to navel-gaze and trust in divine providence.

The last couple of weeks have been hectic with trips to Durham to collect elder student son at the end of his four-year modern languages programme at the university. He seems to have inherited the family gene that prevents us throwing things away; the car was groaning under the load as we headed south.

 

Then, last weekend it was the apt reward for his study efforts; the graduation ceremony took place in the spectacular eleventh-century Durham Cathedral.

Outside the Cathedral a massive white marquee was pitched on the lawns (close to where archaeologist discovered a medieval mass grave about six months ago).

 

Inside were bars, coffee stalls, merchandising, exhibitions and the photography studios where students and their proud parents were fussed over by about ten teams of photographers.

 

Next to the cathedral is Durham Castle, another building that is about one thousand years old, home to the Prince-Bishops of Durham. Its grand hall was used to process the students, to ready them for the formal procession into the cathedral.

We parents and guests queued patiently outside, sheltering under umbrellas for up to an hour before we were allowed into the cathedral. Inside, among the massive stone piers and soaring arches were large LCD screens, video photographers perched on commanding heights.   

Alas, photography was banned in the cathedral, apologetic but determined marshals pounced on anyone who produced a camera. I did, sort of accidentally, take my camera out and attempt a photograph...I shouldn’t have bothered.

Then, the procession entered, mace and sword bearers followed by academics in their colourful gowns and, bringing up the rear, the Chancellor, opera-star Sir Thomas Allen. After them came the students, hundreds of them, most in black gowns trimmed with white fur, some with purple or silk trimmings and hoods. Sprinkled among them, like peacocks among a flock of ducks, were the candidates for the Doctor of Philosophy degree, resplendent in their scarlet gowns, trimmed with purple silk.  

There followed a couple of hours of speeches and the traditional name-calling as each student was greeted by the Chancellor, congratulated and then moved on.

Afterwards, crowds milled outside, and when the rain arrived, the students used their hoods to protect themselves from the elements.

  

For us, an early dinner with newly-minted graduate son, followed by – for him - a riotous night’s celebration in the city’s many nightclubs.