A Rather Different Week: 24 November - 1 December 2006

On a Thursday night, 24 November 2006, in a fit of pique, momentary lack of concentration and trying to do DIY with one too many glasses of Meknes-Best inside me too late in the evening, I managed to saw through a fair section of my left wrist with one of Black & Decker's best suicide weapons, severing the arteries and most of the tendons. In the heat of the moment, I must have lost my presence of mind - I wasn't quite sure what to do next but Fatima made enough noise to alert the neighbours to the fact that there might be something more amiss than just having mislaid the corkscrew.

The blood was incredible and I sat there staring at it mesmerised, which was probably one of the more stupid things I have ever done in my life. Had not the next-door neighbour had the presence of mind to apply two tourniquets I would be very dead indeed. Getting to the hospital was problem enough as the police wanted to sort out all the paperwork first. The general consensus was that it would be better to drag me down into the street and say that I had been attacked, upon which they could act immediately. Fatima said "No" so I sat there quietly dying as about fifteen people all screamed at each other.

Eventually I was manhandled down the stairs, put in an ambulance and taken to the University teaching hospital. In such a state one is not at one's erudite best. "Did you do this?" - "Yes." "Have you been drinking?" - "Yes." And that - as they say - settled that. All this done with Fatima maintaining a constant scream as only Arab women can until I said "Get that bloody woman out of here!" and relapsed into a state of semi-consciousness, unaware that a policeman had been present since the moment I was removed from the flat.

A young intern stemmed the flow of blood and I was eventually wheeled off to the surgical department by a rather brusque Russian doctor, whose main concern was that I could speak neither Russian nor French. In surgery, the young intern came and looked at me, as did an anaesthetist. He was the only person who was in the slightest bit rude - "You are drunk, you tried to kill yourself and if I gave you an anaesthetic with barely a litre of blood left in you, it would kill you," which is just about as blunt as you can get. "We will operate in the morning," and with that I was wheeled off to a ward, stripped naked, covered with a sheet and left on a gurney. I was in no position to complain and I had not had the foresight to pack a pair of jim-jams as we left the flat.

Sometime in the small hours, I was dying for a pee, tried to put my feet on the floor and just fell in a heap banging my head on the terrazzo rather harder than I would have liked. I don't know how but I managed to crawl back onto the gurney and thought 'I'll just have to p--- myself.' Curiously, I didn't.

At dawn two people arrived and wheeled me off towards the surgery department where I was left at the end of a corridor, freezing cold and still dying for a pee. I suppose that they thought it better that I die there rather than in a ward where I might upset the other patients. In this time I really did drift between life and death and it was a strange experience but not in the least bit frightening. Death is very dark and very quiet but the doors seemed to be very firmly shut with a notice saying 'come back later'. However, the really peculiar thing was that when I drifted back into consciousness, everything was upside-down - quite surreal. By this time I was beyond caring about anything - but what I can say is that such a close encounter with death left me with no fear of it at all - just, they don't want me yet - maybe they didn't want me to go in and immediately ask "scoose me but where's the loo?"

At 8:00am my intern arrived, very cheerful and said "Hamboolilah, you're still here - we'd better do something about you." The Russian also arrived and I managed to get through to him that I was still bursting for a pee and he found the necessary plastic bottle. Relief.

The theatre was set up; another - more friendly - anaesthetist arrived and announced that a general anaesthetic would still probably kill me so they would give me a local. I was not in a position to argue. Despite my protestations, a curtain was rigged up so that I could not see what they were up to but there were two lovely theatre nurses who used the next four hours to improve their English.

Before starting Dr Ouabid (as the surgeon turned out to be called) surveyed the damage - as to what moved and where there was any feeling. Not a lot - but I did explain that the feeling in my forefinger and thumb had always been wonky since a hung-over English surgeon had butchered a lycoma out of the palm of my hand thirty years previously. Whether he understood any of this, I haven't a clue but he sighed deeply and said, "This will take some time - please keep still and don't move at all."

Of course - however, although the arm was dead from the upper arm down, the shoulder wasn't and if you try lying with your forearm vertical for four hours without moving and tell me that there is no pain in your shoulder, I will say you are a bloody liar. The Russian kept barking "DON'T MOVE!" and the theatre nurses kept smiling. I was horribly aware that I was still stark naked and that it was still bloody cold.

Don't get me wrong - they were all brilliant and there is not a word of complaint in any of this, and the hospital is basic but fantastic, as well as spotlessly clean.

Before wrapping my arm up, and after the anaesthetic had worn off, Dr Ouabid pricked my left hand all over with a needle. It hurt like hell. I was not allowed to see anything until it was all wrapped up in a plaster cast and I was wheeled back to the ward, still stark naked - with which Fatima arrived with a change of clothes and, by this time, not screaming. A couple of hours later Dr Ouabid breezed in and said "You can go home now, if you like."

Slowly and feeling incredibly wobbly, I made it out of the hospital, across the road and collapsed into a taxi. What I hadn't thought through was the other end and the journey and getting up five flights of stairs. I had to stop, twice, and have never felt more knackered in my life, collapsed on the bed and thought, 'after all that work it really would be a bit bloody stupid to die of a heart attack now.'

Fatima proceeded to feed me for a week on a diet of spinach, lights, tripe, liver, kidneys, all the unmentionable bits that you'd think twice about feeding to the dog, together with the cheapest Moroccan wine (on doctor's orders), as well as every imaginable sort of fruit, nuts and juices. Most of this had been provided by the good people of the souk free-of-charge.

And then came the police. "That much blood is not an accident!" Also, I had said in the hospital that 'I did it', that I had 'been drinking' and had very forcibly said 'get that bloody woman out of here'. All highly suspicious. I should add that the Police reaction does have a strange logic to it. DIY does not exist in Morocco. If you want a light bulb changed, you go down to the street and 'get a man'. Building the house in Benshasha got the reaction that I was stark raving mad. Doing things in the flat - much the same. Thus, when the police arrived to find an Englishman, a saw and about a gallon of blood - the possibility of 'an accident' was the last thing on their minds. They have, since, been very pleasant, even if the (French) administration makes everything very protracted. It takes ages to get through to them that I make things myself and we had to get Mohammed from downstairs to explain that I teach him how to build.

That the police are involved at all is also par-for-the-course. Nobody can be removed from any accident scene until a policeman is present. That is the law and I have to obey them, whether I like them or not.

Just what Fatima told them remains to be seen but the smartly dressed chap who came here was very polite and pleasant to me and spoke better English than he owned to. I refused to go to the police station (on the grounds that I was still too weak) but Fatima went and - if required - I said that I would go on Wednesday. After experiences in Dubai, Yemen and Oman, I am wary of making statements in English, that are translated into Arabic (an incredibly difficult language to write 'legally correctly') by a semi-literate policeman and then be asked to sign something that I cannot read. Still - Fatima has a lawyer who is famous for working for justice, the poor and me. She it was who arranged and attended our marriage and she will read anything that I am required to sign.

Fatima returned home happy and much relieved and said that they would come here on Wednesday - write my statement on my computer and e-mail it to themselves. I hope they don't require me to demonstrate what happened on my right wrist.

On Wednesday I spent a surreal two or three hours with defective constable Abdelhack of the Moroccan police farce - the main point of which was to establish that my mother's name is Virginia Scott and that I was born in Plymouth!!!!! Now all is OK and I have signed an onerous document that says that I will not take any judicial proceedings against Fatima (or Virginia Scott, presumably) for annoying me and making me have an accident. That is - I understand - as good as I can expect, but the matter is closed other than the fact that the entire blame is either Fatima's (or Mama's) and if anyone ever upsets me, I can have both of them renditioned to Kinetra prison indefinitely. DC Abelhack only wants my recipe for Spanish Omelette - the nearest I have ever got to paying bahksheesh, dash or anything else, in return for closing the book.

"What's all this going to cost me?"

"Nothing."

"The ambulance?"

"Nothing."

"Alesh (why)?"

"Don't ask."

I will believe that when I see it.

Of course, after all that, one has to sit down and try and put the brain back into gear. Not actually that easy but it was all a good excuse to stem the flow of constant visitors who have all been directed next door where the fare of the souk is served liberally (still free-of-charge), open yet another bottle of Haffid's best and collapse into a state of teetering insanity.

Abdelwhed - the one wot saved me life - came in to discuss the ways of the flesh and the devil and see if I was alive or remotely sober - both unfortunately but as my doctor/student declined an appointment to discuss impending insanity, it did not seem unreasonable to address the latter part of the problem. The adanalaysha call to prayer arrived - Abdelwahed wanted to charge off to the mosque so I put on Pavel Tchesnokov's 'Funeral Service No 2' sung by the Boyan Male Voice Choir, turned up the volume, opened the windows and said 'try this for size'. He sat there and cried. So did I but I think, if and/or when I succeed in killing myself, the mosque here and in Benshasha will play the same music for all to hear (strange what a different meaning the music takes on). We will just have to wait and see - in the event, I won't be able to hear it. One thing that I do know is that death seems to be incredibly silent even when the doors are firmly closed with a notice saying 'come back later' hanging on the knocker.

On Thursday evening a nurse came in, removed the incredibly cumbersome plaster and re-dressed the wound and now there is just a nice, neat, comfortable crepe-bandage. The stitches are beautiful (if that is possible), the hand works perfectly and I am typing this using both hands normally, using all the fingers of the left hand in my (bad typing) normal fashion. But not just that, the damage done by an English surgeon has been corrected and for the first time in thirty years I now have the correct feeling in the tips of my thumb and forefinger - a strange sensation after all this time and I find that I am constantly rubbing thumb and forefinger together. It really is little short of a miracle.

Of course, I owe my life to Abdelwahed Qassimi (my neighbour). Had he not put a couple of tourniquets on my arm - I would be dead. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to Dr Ouabid and his team at Hôpital Ibn Rochd, who did a superb job when he would have been perfectly within his rights to send me elsewhere. Of course I also owe everything to Fatima (and Nezha) who fed me an amazing diet that has brought me back to normal in an unbelievably short time, not to mention cleaning up the mess - you have no idea how much mess six pints of blood make in a small flat. Finally I have to thank all the people in the souk who have provided us with food and drink - most of it free-of-charge, even the pharmacy gave Fatima some of the bandages and anti-septic wash to dress the wound. Quite 'why' remains a complete mystery.

I also have to thank all family and friends for their concern and good wishes. It has been a help and I promise that I will be more careful in future. So - in the meantime I had better exercise the hand and write something:

Lengthened

Life

Ends when?

Not just now,

Go on another day,

Think not it's gone away,

Heaven and hell are sleeping now,

Even when on the door you knock,

No noise, no light, just silence and dark,

Ease away please, we are closed for the night,

Death awaits, but when you come back, don't be scared.

And then:

Total chaos at the hospital the following Thursday when I went to have the stitches removed and we looked like being there all day and me going quietly insane. It is not the sort of situation I am good at so I left a letter for the doctors who treated me and decided to get the nurse who had dressed the wound to remove the stitches at home. There really was no need to see the doctor and there were hundreds of people who looked far more in need than me. However, as I was leaving the surgeon came in, threw his arms round me, kissed me four times and marched me to his office ahead of everyone. He said that he would come to the flat and remove the stitches personally as the surgery was very crowded! Extraordinary.

Reactions. I suppose there has been one especially as the good doctor confirmed that I did (clinically) die - and that is why they removed me from the ward and left me in a corridor for a couple of hours and maybe why he seemed so pleased to see me. The problem (for them) was that I didn't and having the temerity to live, they did what they could and a damned good job of it they made too. However, the worrying thing is that my memory of the time and the events is incredibly clear - clearer than almost anything that has ever happened to me - not in the least bit frightening, just crystal clear.

One part of it is that every time the silence and total darkness came, there was - not a voice - but something inside my head - a feeling - saying 'No - not yet'. I can cope with that OK, but I think there was something else. Jokingly I told Haffid-the-Outdoor that the gates of hell had a notice saying 'pay Haffid first' and asked if he had friends down there, but there is a more serious side to it in that there was a horribly clear indication that I 'had something to finish'. What? The 'feeling' didn't give any indication at all - a bit like waiting to buy a railway ticket. I have no intention of going through the whole thing again to find out but it exercises the mind in a way that it has never been exercised before.

On reflection it really was a bit stupid to climb the last three stories of the highest building in Casa by ladder and cat-ladder. Mind you I seem to recall that I rode the Jota and played squash just two days after I broke my collar-bone many years ago, so it is nothing new. The view from the top of what was the tallest building in Africa for fifty years is incredible. A seven-year dream came true. My hand hurts like hell afterwards but it was worth it and I spent a night having wild (positive) dreams.

But when you consider that - had I had a pair of pliers - I could have switched off the entire communications system for Casa, it indicates that 'security' isn't all that it should be and that 'wot the man down the pub tells you' is actually true. About the only advantage of being an architect is that - for some reason - it enables you to get access to incredible places. There is also another, slightly more practical benefit in that you instinctively know where the lavatories are.

It has all been an unforgettable - surreal - experience.