After much winding of death sheets,

In short? The patient, he LIVES!

But I was very tempted to put the bastard under the patio. (Also I am now size 18.)

If you require the long version, read on.

Fecking hell, how do nurses cope? Dig, who shall hereafter be called the Patient, went through a very difficult period of spurning all my Nursey help, preferring actual Death to my ministering touch.

Now see here matey, I told him, I have watched American Western films c1973, and they have given me Nursey-know-how to deal with a clapped-out, bashed-up hero with a gut wound and a fever, who looks for dead upon the cabin bed.

As in, the devoted Nursey-wife-woman dresses meanly in worn clothes (done!) and mops the Hero's Brow (done!). Then she stirs nurturing broth and stares at cooking pans, determined (also done!).

Well I can tell you, dear reader, those techniques do not work, not at all. The Patient shows maximum annoyance at the brow-mopping, summoning his last remaining hero-breath to tell the devoted mopper to Get the hell off my face. Then, at the mere mention of sustaining broth, he vomits.

An extremely difficult week indeed.

The Patient declined all food and started shrinking, skeletal-wise. Nursey Grit started to threaten the Patient with Food, or the Patio. The Patient then looked at Nursey Grit as if he hated her. Nursey Grit's food offerings became desperate. The Patient wanted NOTHING. Water was an EFFORT.

Nursey Grit started to panic and weep and regret not forcing the Patient to make a Last Will and Testament.

Nursey Grit also started to wonder about getting the Patient to sign something she had writ, to the effect that Death was not by Nurse Gritty's hand, but the Patient would in fact like to leave her all his money. (This probably counts as Fraud, when actually it should be called Despair.)

Nurse Grit hit the bottle and came out in hives. The children hid. (It did not matter, because by then I had forgot about them anyway.)

But then! The patient demanded a tub of taramasalata and started spooning it into his mouth! Within a day he had eaten half a tub of taramasalata, and Nursey Grit cleared Tesco shelves of this fine sustaining broth before ordering 30 packs for online delivery. A corner had been turned.

Soon, we were surrounded by empty tubs of taramasalata and biscuit wrappers.

Nurse Grit started keeping records of what the Patient actually ate to wave in evidence at the dietician.

1. Offered : milk, tea, hot chocolate, fruit juice, toast, egg, porridge, pate, probiotic drink, carrot, cucumber, mint drink, pomegranate, creme caramel, kangaroo steak, ostrich arse, puffin noses, anything you damn well want.
2. Taken : One teaspoon porridge.

But now! Now! We have seen more of the hospital doctor; a further scan has been taken; Dig's innards have been declared a mess but not cancer, and he has been told by a lady dietitian to eat chocolate pudding, biscuits, crisps, high-fat foods, full-fat milk, ice cream, a daily slab of butter, and more chocolate Complan. Garnished with extra chocolate.

Hurrah! We are, after the false start and the plunge into despair, truly on the road to recovery!

We are all supporting The Patient, who shall hereafter be called Dig, in his new diet regime. (He has gained 5 ounces and we have gained 5 stone.)