The Chauvinist

Spring had finally sprung. The sap was rising. We were about to enjoy that wonderful British invention, the Bank Holiday. Against all the best traditions, the sun was smiling down from a cloudless sky. A rarity indeed, a warm, sunny, dry, British Bank Holiday.

Despite the dire warnings of recent years, my wife and I had spent the day sun bathing in the garden. Soaking up the ultra violet rays and at regular intervals assuring each other that we were, 'turning nicely'  .Couple of days of this and we would be brown as nuts. Our eighteen year old daughter, newly licensed to drive, paid a fleeting visit to the garden, just long enough to peck mum and dad on the cheek, confirm our opinion that we were toasting a nice shade of tan and leave dad feeling she was doing him a favour by borrowing the car for the evening.

Zoe could twist me around her finger. I know it and she knows it. She was off to university the coming October and we were trying to come to terms with the realization that our little girl had changed, it seemed overnight, into a lovely young woman.

Car-less and contented Pam and I took a cab to our friends, where we were invited to that non-British invention, the 'barbie'. Soon we were munching on spare ribs and corn on the cob. Sedately sipping from glasses of Sainsbury's best, when Pam complained of a violent headache. Five minutes later we were in our friend's car, heading for the local hospital with Pam in agony.

Two injections and one hour later the pain had abated. The general opinion leaned to a diagnosis of migraine and after some rest we were sent on our way. It had been a worrying time but that was an end to it. ... We thought.

Tuesday evening .... action replay .... only this time there was no excuse that it could be as a result of the party food or drink. To be fair, we all knew on the previous Saturday that Pam had hardly taken a glass of wine.  She had never been over indulgent in that direction. Whatever, there we were, once again hospital bound. This time aboard an ambulance and Pam being fed oxygen.

The ambulance staff were cheerful and efficient and did their best to reassure us all would be well. This was no mean feat in regard to me. All things medical are, so far as I see it, best kept well clear of. The ostrich with head buried deeply in the sand has nothing on me where hospitals are concerned. At the reception desk it seemed our post code was of vital importance as an aid to diagnosis and treatment of what ailed Pam.

Finally all questions were answered and I joined Pam in the examination room to await a doctor.

Nurses were soon arriving, starting with the most junior and gradually increasing in seniority. All asked the same questions. Give or take slight variations on a theme. Pam being in such distress, it fell to me to answer and I became more sarcastic by the minute. Age ? ... Slightly older than when last asked. Was I the husband ? ... Yes, we had not divorced in the last ten minutes or so since I had replied to the same question. Sorry but they required this information for their records. Couldn't they use the computerized form we had filled in reception ? ... mumbled reply about different departments.

Eventually a doctor arrived, more questions, but I detected a slightly more penetrating purpose. The importance of our post code giving way  to searching health queries. Things were looking up. An examination called for and I was invited to wait outside.

The examination rooms were about six in number and outside each was a small seating area. Outside our cubicle sat a strange looking individual and I nervously took a seat along side him.

Suddenly he leapt to his feet and started to hurl abuse in all directions. A nursing sister was on the scene within seconds and attempting to pacify him. It was soon obvious that he was a regular performer. She knew him by name and he followed her into a side room, where, through the open door I watched her go into a well rehearsed routine, trying, for the umpteenth time, I was later to learn, to encourage him to quit drinking. My Christian thought for the day was ... call the police and have the bastard arrested. A quick glance around showed I was not the only Christian in the hospital that night.

The doctor, having finished her examination, smilingly beckoned me to join her in the room. All was to be revealed. She was wearing that smug ... it's easy when you are as knowledgeable as I ... expression.

'Cluster headaches, Mr. Frear'

'Cluster headaches, doctor'.

'Cluster headaches, Mr. Frear'.

'Cluster, like in cluster bombs, doctor'.

'Pardon. Mr. Frear'.

'Forget it, doctor'... 'What the hell are cluster headaches ?'

It seemed they came in clusters, well, wouldn't you know, and if you were lucky they would depart to find some other poor sod to visit. There appeared to be no rhyme or reason for the attacks and some, only some, of the hospital staff had ever heard of them. I had the impression we were entering new fields here. Treading ground others had not trodden. Another two injections were ordered and duly administered. Close relatives of the two Pam had received the previous Saturday I imagined. We were left to await recovery.  'Mr. Frear !'. I turned. A second doctor had arrived. We went through our now familiar party piece ... twenty questions ... blood pressure retaken. ha rubber hammer was employed, tapping knees and elbows.

'Humm! Humm!' he grunted 'I think we should keep her in over night'.

'Humm!' I grunted. 'Why?'

'Just observation' ... 'nothing to worry about'.

If there is one sure way to start someone worrying, then this guy had hit the jackpot first time. What was he hiding from me? I started to go through my catalogue of medical and folk-lore mishmash. Brain tumors came out clear favourites.

The doctor left me to stew further and strolled off, gently swinging his stethoscope and pausing to chat up a blond nurse along the corridor.

'You must be Mrs. Frear's husband'. Doctor number three. One glance was enough to see this fellow was several feet higher up the totem pole than Docs one and two. There was that ... seen it all before and won ... look about him.

The questions, the hammer, even the humm and the 'We are going to keep her in over night' ... 'So the other doctor told me' I ventured.

'We take it seriously when a patient is suffering headaches and vomiting Doc three continued.

'Perhaps you might mention that to the Saturday night staff' I suggested. 'They were quite happy to send my wife home and her condition was a carbon copy of now'.

A cold front was moving in. One didn't need the weather to tell that. The first shots had been fired in what was to be a twenty-one day war.

********

I saw Pam safely installed in a ward and made my way thoughtfully home.

Rodders, our Jack Russell, met me at the door. He, as is common with dogs, seemed to sense that something was wrong. Usually I receive a welcome about fifty percent of that handed out to Pam. Theirs is a love affair to make Romeo and Juliet look like strangers. To see them together is to witness the ultimate in mutual admiration.

After a scratch meal, over which I brought Zoe up to date on the situation, I was ready for bed.

'Let's wash the dishes first, dad', said Zoe. 'They won't hurt until morning', I replied,' Do them first thing'. ha! bloody ha!.

How could I have foreseen that my hereto held theory ... housework is all a question of organization and men are the natural organizers ... was going to be cruelly put to the test. My apprenticeship in the domestic arts was about to begin.

A morning telephone call to the hospital informed me that Pam would not be home that day and perhaps not for a few more. It was my turn to humm.

Zoe having left for college, I sat over a coffee to consider my strategy.

Entrepreneur. That's a word I have always rather liked and felt it described me pretty well. Always looking for the next deal; the biggy baby, the deal that would set us up for life. Others have used less charitable adjectives. Lazy has featured prominently, coupled with a sprinkling of doubt in regard to my parents matrimonial status.

Look. I'm the first, in what would appear to be a long line, to admit that I'm not the odds on favourite running in the ... Most helpful husband of the year ... race, but then my training to date has not been the best. Until now I've always been, what's the word? ... spoilt. No. No. No. Looked after. That's it. Firstly by my mother, then my wife, briefly interrupted by army service, of which we won't go into here and now. This has left me free for entrepreneurial pursuits but short on domestic skills.

Nevertheless, despite this handicap, I determined to prove to all my metal. I would ask favours of no one. I would master the washing machine, the cooker, the iron. The house would gleam on Pam's return.

Now I come to think of it, this was a golden opportunity to prove my long held belief in mans superior organizational ability and rational approach to all situations. I would lay this ... woman's work is never done ... myth for ever.

Napoleon I think it was, who said something like, 'an army marches on it's stomach', good. So my first priority would be the inner man. A good breakfast was the Napoleonic order of the day.

Confidence was building by the minute. A quick look in the fridge decided the menu. Eggs, bacon, fried bread. Sod the modern trend to healthy eating. Golden brown toast and maybe a couple of nicely fried tomatoes on the side. I rubbed my hands together in anticipation of the coming feast. A glance at the clock. God the time seemed to have flown. Still. Half an hour and the meal would be over and the washing up finished.

There appeared to be quite a pile of dirty dishes already. Strange. I couldn't recall using every cup from the tree. No probs. There were reinforcements in the cupboard.

The grill was lit and the bread toasting nicely. I found a fry pan and the fat was melting. 'A piece of cake' as they used to say. Now for the bacon and eggs. Many have had a jolly good laugh on occasions at the thought of me looking after myself. Soon the laugh would be on them. Two rashers, I think, But there was only four left in the pack, may as well finish them off now. I should be needing all my strength for the tasks ahead. Into the pan with them. Now for the eggs. I cracked the first with the edge of a knife, unfortunately I underestimated my power. The knife went straight through breaking the yoke and the whole mess fell into the pan. Ok! Not the best start but it could happen to anyone. Egg two. I tackled this chap very gently indeed. Too gently. Tapping the shell lightly with the knife produced a small crack. Placing my thumbs either side of the crack I pressed and levered. Both thumbs went into the egg and once again I had a yellow and white mess to join it's companion in the pan.

At this time I noticed smoke billowing from the grill. Sod it! My golden toast was a burnt offering. Never mind. For my debut I would make do with bread and butter, it was only to be expected, the odd mistake or three.

After depositing the burnt toast in the waste bin I returned to the fry pan. My egg mess had completely surrounded the bacon and filled the pan. Perhaps the gas was a little high, a brown frill had developed round the edge. Problems seemed to be arising fast, the eggs were certainly done but the bacon was most definitely underdone. No panic. I shoveled the whole lot onto a plate and separated the bacon for further cooking.

The promised fried bread, along with the tomatoes, well, they would have to await my return from the drawing board. A plan was needed. I had rushed headlong into battle with the cooker and emerged with a bloody nose.

Battered but un-bowed summed up my mental state at this time. It was obvious that if we were going to eat at home, my timing and technique were going to have to improve. From the annihilated remains of the breakfast ingredients I made a sandwich. As I chewed I looked at the cooker. I could almost imagine a sneer on the oven face. Watch it Frear. Was I starting to imbue inanimate objects with human traits and emotions ?

I spat some shell out that had escaped my earlier efforts to remove from the pan. I was forced to concede round one but the fight was not over, no, it was the shock of Pam being whisked away. There was plenty of fight left in the old dog yet.

next job, ring round friends and relatives to impart the bad news. My bloody word, that clock couldn't be right. It was racing away. Shower, shave and shampoo and then visit Pam. Stuff the dishes, they would have to wait. My mother's words came back over the years, 'I've only got one pair of hands and I'm not made of electricity'. Fond memories.

Rodders was sitting on his arse in the begging position he had adopted from puppy days, untaught but certainly effective.

'What is it boy?' I asked, 'can't play now, things to do'. Then the coin dropped. I'd fed myself, albeit, after a fashion but I'd forgotten him. God. If Pam found out I was for the meat grinder.

Hunt the dog food, bloody hell's bells, was there going to be no end to this. Why? oh Why? had I not taken more interest in how things were done. My chickens were coming home to roost alright. I must not give up. Remember Dunkirk ...

********

Pam still had a headache ... like the Titanic had a teething problem. It was the mother and father of all headaches. They had given her a brain scan and my gag died the death when I said they found nothing there. She'd also had a lumber puncture, result, thank God, all clear. The staff told me all the things that Pam hadn't got. I was delighted. On paper, Pam was the fittest person in the hospital and a goodly few outside into the bargain.

'Nothing to worry about, Mr.Frear; couple more days and she will be home'. This was the theme, all the doctors and nursing staff were as one on this.

'Great', said Mr. Frear, 'but what has she got that is causing all this pain and vomiting?'

The medical fraternity must run politicians a very close second when answering questions. Getting a straight ... I don't know ... was like trying for a pint of semi-skimmed from a prize bull.

'We are doing more tests' said the doctor when I eventually corner him

'What for?' I ask.

'Just checks, like to be on the safe side you know'.

'So you have no idea, as yet, what the cause is doctor?'

'Ah! ... well these things can be tricky you see'.

'No. I'm afraid I don't see. I have been assured there is nothing to worry about, Pam would be home in a couple of days. I fail to see, in the absence of a firm diagnosis, on what you base these assurances'.

*****

On the journey home I reviewed the situation. The whole attitude of the hospital staff was sapping my confidence. Were they groping in the dark? If so, why not just come clean and admit they were flummoxed. Maybe they were hoping the whole thing would depart of it's own accord. I was a bloody nuisance asking questions ... well ... they were going to have to live with my questioning, Pam was worth more than their egos.

On reaching home I received a warm welcome from Rodders. He was missing his mum. He gazed into my face, small tail wagging furiously, head going from side to side. Did he understand what was going on? I found myself telling all. This was early days. By the end of the week I would be conversing with the flowers. Oh! well, good enough for Prince Charles, good enough for me.

The remainder of that first day passed in a blur. An evening visit to the hospital produced no further news. Tests, tests and more tests seemed the order of the day. Both Zoe and I detected a distinct chill in the atmosphere, nursing staff avoided eye contact and Zoe asked for the loan of a book she felt certain I had. ... How to win friends and influence people.

Crispy fried duck, rice and prawn balls provided our supper, purchased from the local Chinese take away and then we took to our beds. Day one had drawn to a close. Tomorrow we must have a council of war to determine our battle plans. This looked like being a fairly long campaign. Just one day had produced a basket full of washing, unmade beds, a kitchen that resembled Berlin 1945 and the lawn had grown two inches.

Our pow-wow of the following day really resolved nothing. Oh! we came up with a plan to divide the household chores but over the next few days, it crumbled into dust. My concern was to ensure that Zoe didn't neglect her studies at this crucial time. Another trifling flaw in our strategy was my inability to admit, that she, being female, just might have a better idea of the workings of the home than myself. We had both become accustomed to the good fairies who washed our clothes, cooked our meals and performed all the small miracles needed to allow us the time to concentrate on the more weighty matters of life.

To be fair to us, visiting times at the hospital, from eleven in the morning till eight or so at night, although generous, was a two edged sword. I wanted to be with Pam for as long as possible but certainly in the early days, she was heavily sedated and sleeping for long periods. I would wander the hospital grounds, eventually leaving for home, not sure that she would be told of my visit. Even the most talented home maker would be hard pressed to maintain a very high standard in the circumstances.

Before tackling the daunting task of mastering the washing machine, I decided to apply myself to the basket full of already washed bits and pieces. 

Out with the iron. This always looked a peaceful and rather relaxing occupation as I watched Pam skim over the board, at the same time keeping up with the latest episode of her favourite soap opera on telly.

Once again fate decreed I be humiliated. Within seconds I was crying out, turning the air blue, my fingers jammed in the infernal ironing board. The clock raced on as I recovered from my wounding. As I sat sipping a well deserved Dutch lager, I reflected that it was little wonder that R.O.S.P.A.tell us, most accidents occur within the home. This being a fact, I calculated my chances of survival equivalent to the proverbial ... snowball in hell ...if I was left to my own devices for very much longer.

The iron itself I discovered, was state of the art. There were buttons to direct steam where ever it was required. There was a dial to regulate the heat. Holes underneath and a nozzle at the front. Everything one needed, except some clever sod to work it.

Turning the dial to steam, I plugged in ... contact ... chocks away. To fill in the time whilst it came up to operating temperature, I partook of another cold lager.

Whether the thermostat was faulty, I never discovered.

The replacement iron came with instructions to fill with water before using the steam function. Well. No one is perfect.

This, I think, was the first time I pleaded with Zoe ... 'Don't tell mum. She will think we can't manage on our own'.

Iron two. Son iron one, I treated with circumspection. From now on only when the work was done would I allow myself to relax over a drink. The iron trauma made it necessary for Zoe to drive us to the hospital that evening if I wished to keep my license intact.

Two surreptitious phone calls to female members of the tribe elicited useful tips on ironing. At the time I thought that I had used diabolical cunning when speaking to them. I was anxious to preserve my male superiority stance which would make admitting defeat too bitter a pill to swallow. I later found out that they had seen through my ploy, as one sees through a pane of clear glass.

Anyway, armed with the tips, teased from the ladies, I sallied forth on the road to expertise.

Alas! ... While I met with limited success with tea towels, handkerchiefs and the like, I found these but a trap, a come on, luring me with false confidence to tackle a larger, seemingly innocent garment, only to find the base of the iron glued to the material. God. How I loathed that malevolent household beast.

******

Thunder clap headaches. This was the latest diagnosis on Pam's illness. From what I was able to make out, they were big brother to Cluster.

By this time we had been offered a whole range of possible names and causes. Not least, Pam had fractured her neck.

This one was quite remarkable.

I had arrived on a Saturday morning visit to find Pam wearing a large collar. A staff nurse, seeking to put my mind at ease, told me that Pam had broken her neck ... this according to the latest specialist to be called in. Red faces and much hand wringing for the medics when it was discovered that the diagnosis had been wrong. Mix up. Slip of the tongue. Someone had blundered. ... Shades of Balaclava.

"A lumbar puncture can produce severe headaches in some people" said the doctor after the Thunder Clap revelation and he showed a somewhat less than good humour when I asked how they knew which ach Pam was suffering at this time. Lumbar puncture induced, Thunder clap, Cluster, Neck Fracture etc ?

By now I was developing a nice little phobia. The medical staff, to a man, or to a woman come to that, were looking at me with, what I can only describe as longing. A longing that I might be delivered into their hands. Suffering. Suffering from some known, or better still, unknown malady. I would pay a very high price for my remarks to date. My prayers became peppered with entreaties that I might be spared this fate. If I be struck down, let it be far from their jurisdiction.

Zoe took over the dreaded ironing and I must say, showed a remarkable aptitude. What had reduced me to finding solace in the bottle, she mastered easily. My theory on male dominance was fraying around the edges with every passing day. Sleep became a continuing nightmare of domestic crises, only to awaken and find reality proving worse. I was being pummeled into defeat by a vicious gang whose members, iron, washing, dirty dishes, vacuum cleaner, among many, would not be content until I bit the dust and lay totally humiliated.

All this, I was sure, showed when Zoe and I gathered at Pam's bedside. I tried desperately to put on a brave face. " No! everything was fine on the home front, just relax and get well pet, I find it all a doddle". A furtive glance at Zoe. A quick change of subject.

As the days wore on the fridge became empty. This was not due to culinary master pieces flowing un-endingly from the cooker, no, the... sell by...dates were running out. I now surrendered unconditionally on the cooking side and meals were taken out or brought in, according to the household purse. This was another thorn, in my already bleeding side, where did all the money go ? No longer would I be in the position to lecture on careful budgeting. The bank statement read like a sick joke.

The one reasonably bright star in this dark and cloudy night was the washing machine. Strangely enough, the instrument I dreaded most, in the battery of appliances we now use in our homes, turned out to be my only real success. When I say success, perhaps this is a slight exaggeration. The only setting I used was...40.. Acting on earlier advice, cunningly guiled, I used this setting for all things, bright or beautiful. The countless other programs, I left well alone but ..40..  without the dots underneath, there is a 40 with dots, worked well so why knock it.

Just for the record, I feel I should point out, I didn't give up on the cooking front without a fight. Let me keep some remnant of self esteem. Twice, I think, meals were planned and executed, in the event, perhaps that is an unfortunate choice of word. The straw that broke the back of the kitchen camel was, after many hours of toil and stress fashioning a Shepherds Pie, Rodders took one look at his share of the spoils and bolted pell-mell for the garden, returning only when the dustbin had devoured the pie. Gratitude indeed. As President Truman of the United States of America once said...."If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen"... I now realize exactly what the gentleman meant and henceforth will endeavour to follow his dictum to the letter.

Three weeks had passed and Pam was coming home. She still had a slight headache but was improving by the day. On the understanding that she had plenty of help at home, her release was granted and the hospital bade me a fond farewell. At least one member of their company was an old Boy Scout as I distinctly remember he held two fingers up in salute.

A couple of days prior to this happy event, I had finally admitted defeat. Utter. No excuses. No reservations. Total humiliating, no going back, defeat. I could no longer expound my theory of male supremacy. It is a sad sight, seeing a grown man weep in shame.

*********************

A phone call had brought a female relative into the fray and I watched my old enemies put to the sword. Well, the duster actually. In what seemed no time at all, the house sparkled from top to bottom. The rotary clothes line filled and emptied. My arch enemy, the iron, was gliding over the board again as docile as a baby, a dribble of condensed steam ran down it's face like a tear. I felt no sympathy. It had shown me no mercy. Let he who lives by the steam...die by the steam.

The carpet was back to it's original colour, from the brindled Jack Russell hue of recently and perhaps best of all, we sat down to a home cooked meal. "How do you like your steak "....music to the ears. I had learnt a hard lesson but maybe the twitch I had developed would leave me in time. No more would you hear me boast male superiority. I knew now who were the weaker sex.

**************

It had been a worrying time. Stressful and painful but I had come through. Pam had had a rotten time too. We were coming back to normal. I could now, under supervision, play my part in the household chores, that is when my entrepreneuring allowed and Pam could no longer tell people...........

"I am married to the best 'do it yourself man in the country. I ask him to do something and he says, DO IT YOURSELF"