Mr Grayling is
stuck on the toilet. Although, given his gargantuan size, it might be more
accurate to say the toilet is stuck on him.
‘I found him
like this on my morning round,’ says the scheme manager, a thin man in a trim
black suit and goatee. ‘I don’t think he’s all that well.’
‘Mr Grayling? Mr
Grayling?’
He nods his head
up and opens his eyes.
‘Get me up!’ he
says.
‘We will, just
as soon as we can. We’ll get our trolley right up alongside you, but you’re
going to have to help us, because obviously we can’t lift you.’
‘Get me up!’
Rae goes to
fetch the trolley.
With the manager’s
help I move as much stuff out of the bathroom as I can. The gate to the walk-in
shower opens both sides to accommodate Mr Grayling’s size, a fact which works
to our advantage, as it gives us more headroom for the trolley. Environmentally
it seems as if we have just enough space to do the transfer, but given Mr
Grayling’s bulk, it’s going to be a close-run thing.
‘We’ll try it
once ourselves, but failing that we’ll have to call in the cavalry.’
‘Of course,’
says the manager, narrowing his eyes to emphasise the delicacy of the situation.
‘Meanwhile, should I gather his medications and things together?’
He gives his a
little nod of his head, then moves quietly away in the direction of the kitchen.
After Rae has
returned and we’ve positioned the trolley as best we can, the first stage is to
take off Mr Grayling’s trousers, a trip hazard, looped around his ankles along with
his pants. Luckily the trousers have enough flare to slip over his swollen
feet, and I pass them over to the manager who delicately puts them in a bag.
‘Stage One,
complete,’ I say to Mr Grayling, wiping my forehead with the back of my gloved
hand. ‘We’ll pull your pants up when you’re on your feet. We’ll come either
side and give you a little boost, but your job is to take your weight, and then
make as much a turn to the right as you can and sit on the trolley.’
I look at Rae.
‘When we’ve got
him sat down I’ll help him lie back and hopefully the momentum of that will
carry his legs up enough to roll onto the trolley.’
‘I’m not
convinced,’ she says.
‘Me neither, but
it’s worth a shot. If not, we’ll get on the radio.’
‘Get me up!’
says Mr Grayling.
‘Okay, then.
Here we go.’
He does manage
to take his weight, and after we’ve pulled his drawers up, a couple of tottering
steps. I guide him onto the trolley. When he sits, the whole thing creaks and
sags alarmingly.
‘And turn...’
He flaps his
arms about in alarm, but the movement does allow us to get his legs up. Once he’s
lying on the trolley we haul him out into the corridor. With a little more room
to move, we untuck the trolley sheet, slide him into a better position, then
together raise the back.
‘Mission
accomplished!’
‘Well done,’ purrs
the manager.
‘Thanks for your
help,’ I say.
‘You’re very welcome.’
And if he dropped
down on all fours and started rubbing himself around my legs – well, actually,
I wouldn’t be all that surprised.
6 comments:
"And if he dropped down on all fours and started rubbing himself around my legs – well, actually, I wouldn’t be all that surprised."
Always said you were a handsome man Spence.....
Well I admit that reads a little wrong, but of course what I meant to say was - he looks like a cat. :/ *blush*
I feel like this one ought to be titled, "Get me up!" Did he ever say *anything* else, Mr. Grayling?
Not much!
And if it wasn't for his occasional outbursts, I'd have put him at a reduced level of consciousness. (Although he did feel ill - prob a UTI - I think he could've been a bit more communicative / cooperative).
Don't worry, I understood the manager was like a cat :)
And well done on getting him onto the trolley! Those situations could easily go either way, the other option being the floor!
It was all a bit tricky, Char - but luck (and gravity) were on our side this time! :)
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