Kevin Bridges

Kevin Bridges

I’ve been asked to help out in a lot of ways since the Covid-19 lockdown began and yet, aside from a few poor attempts at doing keepy-ups with a toilet roll as part of the ‘show off your massive garden’ series of celebrity challenges, I’ve found myself gradually descending into a pit of unmotivated slothfulness. Adam has only asked me to contribute a chapter, or even a few paragraphs, with a fairly generous two-week deadline and even at that I’m cutting it slightly fine.

My circadian rhythm is bordering on the alarming, even by a stand-up comedian’s standards. I’m not sure if my mind is officially in British Summer Time; I’ll need to take a look at a map later and determine approximately which time zone I’m living in. Somewhere near the east coast of America, I’d say. Greenland or somewhere like that. Of course, this is the first time I’ve opened up about this unproductive rut; my WhatsApp group chats are the first to know of anything meaningful I’ve accomplished during this bleak period – screenshots of my mediocre times on the few 5k runs I’ve attempted, photos of some home gym circuits and the front covers of a few books I’ve bought but haven’t started, complete with a bookmark strategically placed to imply progress.

Despite the vicissitudes that the world is experiencing, I’m attempting to maintain some equanimity by focusing on little tasks, no matter how picayune. Like writing down words I’ve read and didn’t know their definitions, and then learning them by looking them up and using them in a sentence. Words like vicissitudes, equanimity and picayune.

Like most people, I look forward to relative normality being restored and I know how important it is that we all do our job, or ‘our bit’, by staying indoors – no matter how mentally challenging it can be at times – and by checking in, via phone and video calls, on our family, friends and neighbours, especially those who are elderly and vulnerable in any way. And of course, if you’re in a position to, make sure you drop off food and medicines and help out any charitable causes which will be struggling massively.

So, to the National Health Service. I would have written ‘NHS’ but I’m attempting to bump up the word count of my ramblings here – if I hit a thousand words, I can justify an afternoon bottle of some mental-sounding and fairly potent Belgian beer. My wife, Kerry, and I have been out in the garden for the last few Thursdays, applauding and drinking one of said mental-sounding and fairly potent Belgian beers and prosecco, respectively, in your honour. Like the great people we are. We also pay our taxes in the hope you are provided with the wages, equipment and environments you deserve, which is a more tangible way of showing appreciation, but that’s a rant for another time.

Aside from an asthma attack when I was seven, when I was rushed to hospital and kept in for a few days, and a fairly embarrassing operation a year ago (I’ll omit the full details here but google ‘torn fissure nerve’ for an idea. Never strain too hard during a bowel movement, folks), my own personal experiences with the NHS are fairly limited, thankfully. A situation that will gradually change as I grow older and my west of Scotland upbringing takes its toll.

But I write a personal thank you on behalf of some very special people in my life. Notably my parents and my mother-in-law, Joanne, who has been relentlessly and heroically fighting a battle with cancer for many years.

As these are grim times, I feel a more light-hearted and recent NHS anecdote is a better choice. An afternoon last summer, I’d popped in to see my mum and dad, Patricia and Andy; a fairly routine visit, but I wisely came armed with updates on the ever-evolving wedding plans for Kerry and my big day, in anticipation of one of my mum’s increasingly frantic interrogations.

‘There’s less and less bees every year, they’re saying …’

I walked into my parents’ living room just as my dad’s latest discourse was gathering momentum. ‘They’re saying’ has long been my dad’s method of revealing his sources, an attempt to ensure his heavily paraphrased, embellished monologues hold some integrity when placed under scrutiny.

My mum looked happy to see me; she always does, but she looked especially happy as my entrance offered a natural out, a temporary escape from my dad and his concerns about the dwindling bee community.

A routine visit passed, but a few days later, a hysterical phone call from my mum revealed the true extent to which my dad had enlisted himself as a guerrilla warrior in the fight to save the bee. He’d been out on the top step having a cigarette, one of the twenty highlights of his day, when he saw a bee struggling under a sheet of tarpaulin which was placed over a garden chair. In many Scottish gardens during summer time, tarpaulin offers an alternative to carrying the garden furniture to the shed every evening, in anticipation of a torrential downpour. The bee was released safely, but my dad, aged seventy-two, had over-stretched himself, lost his footing and fell down the original five stairs before rolling and then beginning a rapid descent down the ‘big stairs’, which lead out onto the pavement. A fall which would have been hilarious to onlookers if he were still in the optimum age bracket of comical falls, approximately between the ages of twelve and the early fifties. It’s one of the first signs of ageing, when you have a slapstick tumble that elicits panic and genuine concern as opposed to helpless laughter.

My mum was preoccupied with preparing a ham salad and oven chips – staple Scottish summer garden food – and had missed the incident, only appearing from the doorway to see my dad lying face down and unable to move or make a sound. Being a neurotic worrier and a lifelong doomsday prepper, and also a devout Catholic, her initial reaction was to shout to her best friend and neighbour, Bertha, who was running down her own stairs having witnessed the whole thing – from the bee salvage right through to the fall – to phone their parish priest. First aid, paramedics, nurses, doctors were all cut out of the rescue bid as my mum had pronounced my dad dead and it was now a matter of having his soul redeemed and his last rites read.

The feeling of frantically racing down to my parents’ home after my mum had hung up the phone is still vivid and the morbid feeling of helplessness will never leave me, but it was also assuaged (another one of my new words there, folks!) by a rational voice in my head reminding me that my mum is prone to a hyperbolic overreaction. When I arrived at their garden, my dad was conscious and repeating his oft-said mantra: ‘Patricia, fucking calm down.’ These will no doubt be my dad’s last words, but not this day. He was clearly in agony, a little embarrassed and unable to move, but he was already beginning to see the funny side and proudly announcing the news of the bee’s emancipation.

My dad has suffered from rheumatoid arthritis for as long as I can remember and had recently been struggling with pneumonia, so it was clear, despite his protests, that he needed medical assistance. It was a serious situation, but maybe not serious enough to justify the amount of missed calls from my mum on the Lord’s phone. After a bit of convincing from my mum, Bertha, myself, Kerry and my brother John, and following advice from Scotland’s ever-excellent NHS 24, it was decided that, based on the likelihood of serious injury and his recent medical past, my dad was to get over to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Glasgow. Grudgingly, fearing being kept in overnight or for a few days, my dad was helped into my car and off we went.

We were seen fairly quickly, given my dad’s age and the colour he had turned as the adrenalin wore off and the pain kicked in. The nurse, Sue, introduced herself and calmly reassured my mum that my dad was in the best place and all the standard stuff. She had recognised me, which is always handy in these situations, and it turned out that her brother was the one and only Tommy Flanagan, star of one of my favourite films, Ratcatcher, and a major Hollywood player, starring in Sons of Anarchy and a shitload of other acclaimed shows and movies. My dad, who was now perking up again, realising a fresh set of ears was now present to hear of his bee rescue, began to rattle off his Netflix recommendations and apologised for having not been able to ‘get into’ Sons of Anarchy, but that he would as soon as he was out, perhaps seeing this as a bargaining tool. An ‘if you let me leave, I’ll watch your brother’s show’ type of arrangement.

With the nurse and doctor fearing that the impact from the fall could have affected my dad’s lungs, which wouldn’t be ideal for his steady recovery from pneumonia, he was taken for an x-ray which, fortunately, came back showing only a few cracked ribs.

My dad was advised to stay in hospital for the evening, but managed to negotiate an early release with a dose of heavy painkillers and a promise to rest in bed and watch Sons of Anarchy. He managed a dance at our wedding, even mimicking a few shotguns being fired into the air as the band played their George Ezra cover.

On behalf of my family, thank you, to Sue (Tommy Flanagan is not the only superstar in his family) and all of the staff, nurses and doctors at the Queen Elizabeth who looked after my dad in this instance and countless others in so many other, more serious instances.

We’re as indebted to you all as that bee should be to my dad.

In these times, I don’t have to detail the worry we all feel for our parents, grandparents and any loved one who fits the high-risk category. So, another thank you, to the NHS staff, across the board, for their expertise, their professionalism, their compassion and their unyielding work ethic in what is a truly overwhelming time. They are the frontline heroes in this war effort.

Thank you also to the staff, nurses and doctors who care for the young people at the Queen Elizabeth teenage cancer wing which I proudly opened a few years back. To everyone at Clydebank Health Centre who has been there for me since I was born, from my MMR jabs to my sore arse, and a special thanks for the care that they continually provide for my parents.

Finally, to Dr Sadozye and Dr Siddiqui from the Beatson Cancer Centre in Glasgow for their dedicated treatment of my mother-in-law, Joanne. I hope this little contribution can in some way reflect my gratitude to the NHS and my hope that they all keep strong and are rewarded for these monumental efforts.

I’ll be pouring one out for you all on Thursday night.

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