Читать книгу The World I Fell Out Of онлайн

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Priceless was an older, educated woman, a tourist, who had fallen and damaged her neck after drinking a glass or three of wine. She could still walk and her injuries, compared to the rest of us, were about as bad as a summer cold, but she was oblivious to this. Her lack of self-awareness, common tact even, was breathtaking. Viewed through her eyes, her plight was monstrous – her holiday had been ruined and her elegant handwriting was affected. She demanded the hand therapists help her restore it; she complained loudly about the nurses on the ward who refused to help her wash and dress, the state of the food, and the fact she was in pain. She was one of the very few patients who didn’t either touch or amuse me; it took me several years to understand the truth that she embodied. Everyone’s handicap is relative. We are all entitled to our own perspective on how badly we are injured. What seemed trivial to some was life-changing to others, and vice versa. The ownership of that grief belonged entirely to her; that was her right. Its impact upon her was not for others to judge. At the time, though, I just wanted to tell her to open her eyes and look around at the rest of us. And if I’m honest, I still experience a similar stir of exasperation when I am corralled by some old dear who wants to tell me how bad her sciatica is. I have learnt to smile and nod, detach myself from judgement.