Please do not sit on the dead

December 14, 2007 at 9:19 am Leave a comment

Most of you know I have four brothers. They are all dipshits, but I love them. Each one compliments the next ones faults or high-lights the previous ones talents.

Baboo (aka Brandon) is the older brother. He is young, manly & fiercely independant. He has a gorgeous live in girlfriend who has put up with his shit for five years. They live together and she keeps him level headed. Being a South African Police Officer (Pig) is something that both scares me and makes me proud of him. He is forever going to one border or the other and fighting crime. Ther irony of this is that he was one of the naughtiest kids at school and has the least amount of disregard for the law. Not that my mom would ever admit that. Brand is her favourite child, and her blue (although he has green) eyed boy.

Brand and the boys went ice skating ages ago, and being the dorks that they are, they got a little rough and determined to prove that they were not gaylord fockers prancing around doing twirls and swirls on the ice. Of course, when Dazz pointed at Brand and laughed at how he was squeezing his bum in, they chased eachother around the rink and Brandon landed on his coxcyx, on the ice, in front of a bunch of girls. Darryn has never been forgiven.

Years on Brand has had to get treated for his injury via surgery, which had my mom, Darryn, Wok and myself piling into my car to drive through and visit him in hospital. I cannot articulately express how sad it is that my family automatically transforms into the hillbilly bunch whenever we go anywhere.

A while back I had been to Kingsway hospital to visit a friend of mine, so had a general idea of where I was going. As usual we were running an hour late and Dearest Mother of mine was adamant we were going the wrong way, Darryn throws his two cents in every three seconds, it is now night time, the roads are wet, Wok was singing and my car smelled really awful*, I was getting frustrated and eventually followed Moms directions just to keep her peaceful. Within four point two minutes we all realised that it was indeed the wrong way, and best I turn around and follow my original path.

Finally at the hospital, just as visiting hours close, we rock up at the surgical ward. Wok gets jammed between two swinging doors and howls. Mom bends down to help our youngest brother and a packet of smuggled KFC falls out her bag right in front of the nurses front desk. Darryn starts snorting and turns around to walk straight into the glass wall in front of him. Kinsway Hospital, we have arrived.

Mom asks reception where her son “the South African Police Officer” is, and the nurses immediately direct us to room 8. I don’t know if they were so prompt in order to get the country bumpkins out of the way, or because Sam, Brands GF is a nurse there and had warned them of what to expect with our arrival.

Brandon is lying on the bed looking forlorn and oh so sorry for himself, with his butt perched onto pillows and in the air. Sam fawning all over him, I hear him muttering about his tongue ring and the painful drip in his arm – “I don’t want it Shammy, tell shem to took it out man, I’s sore!, its worshe than the shecond whole they made in my arshe”. She looks over at us and rolls her eyes, “he’s been a bloody nightmare, so good to see you, hello boys, hello Ma,” kiss kiss while she rubs his arm and Brand looks at Mom and a single tear rolls down her cheek. Mom just about sits on top of him, and plies him with smuggled KFC, an enormous box of Apple Juice, and an over-grown chocolate slab “your favourite, Mommy’s boy” (cue rolling eyes from the rest of the unloved miscrients she calls her children).

Darryn falls off his chair twice, reads a sign above the very old and grey other patient’s bed incorrectly and thinks, in his small ADHD mind, it says ‘Please do not sit on the dead’ and loses colour to his face. Wok inspects the hospital room for injections, gloves, or cool silver knives from surgery and finally settles to play with the tap in the bathroom while screaming commentation from the surgery room he can see across the quad through the window ‘oooh gross, they just cut out his guts, Brand’ and ‘hey, can you live without a heart? I think that just came out next, you should come see this Baboo!’. The nurse comes in to take Brand’s blood pressure and thankfully ignores the sign at the door only allowing two visitors per patient.

Finally, after much begging, whining and nagging from Mom who was not allowed to look under the sheets at his bum, Brand and Sam (who was in the surgery with him, observing) recount all the gory details and placate my mom sufficiently that she will have some serious gossip to tell her collegues tomorrow at work. Dazz, who has managed to stay on his chair and stare at his brother in bed for the last three minutes, collapses into a fit of giggles when he hears voltaren suppositories are the order of today. ‘You mean you have to stick them up your naught? BWHAHAHAHA, don’t forget your lube ok? Or you could just be like David and Mario and use some Rama, I hear its cheaper’.

The nurses waved us off, and very politely didn’t snigger when I too-loudly told my mom that her bum was eating her pants, or when Darryn let one slip as we walked out of the ward, or when Wok found a moth and tried to eat it just before he was slapped against his ear, or when I almost fell down the stairs with my sexy pointed stilletos of yesterday.

I got home at half passed ten, after an hours drive there and back, and silently thanked the gods that I am the sane one in my family and realised that I have become the silent observer. Only slightly traumatised, I slipped off to sleep.

* A box of what was once KFC Pops was found stuffed under my car chair. Fifteen million species of fungi and moss had developed all over it and I have no idea how it got there, I don’t even eat the stuff.

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