Keep Cool, Hold Steady
Brendan Sloan
Convincing Doctors you're well enough to leave hospital is a bizarrely tense experience, one that can have you sweating and stuttering like a convict up for parole. On Monday the 25th February 2008 I found myself undertaking this precarious task. Having spent the four previous nights in the respiratory ward at Glasgow's Gartnavel Hospital, I could suffer no more time spent among the sick and lifeless. To add to my troubles, the Hold Steady were playing the Garage that very night and the idea I should miss them was hitting me harder than the asthma attack that landed me in this dungeon! Thus, at first sight of Matron (old nurse, really) I set to pleading my case. I calmly assured her my lungs were no longer the diminished wheeze sacks of four days ago and that my bed would surely be better off cradling some helpless codger than this sprightly young buck. No dice.
'Four days ago that same old codger could have dragged you out o' bed without much o' a fight so just haud yer wheest' she fired in.
'Fair point I suppose' I limped back with, feeling like an over excited child who's been told to calm down. There was a glimmer of hope in her playful tone so I remained persistent.
'So what's top brass sayin' to it? Good news? More blues?' This raised a chuckle. 'What're you like boy? Top brass say remain patient. Dr Huw will be in at one, so you've a good four hours o' stewing time.' The ward was depressing. I was in with three old boys who were there for the long, slow haul. Across from me was an old navy man who kept promising to 'tear this place up' before he jumped overboard to swim home. Beside him was a stick thin cancer sufferer who had a stash of vodka in his drawer. Next to myself was the oldest of the comrades, and with every strangled breath he moved closer to the grim inevitable. At night when the lights were low and activity ceased, when the silence was no longer occupied by the sweet reassurances of staff but the whimpering moans of the sick, perspective and clarity would wash over you like a cold shower: stop smoking and make it stick. No question, I had to.
As time crawled by with all the gusto of a dying snail, I decided to occupy my mind. I tried to engage the fellas in some banter, but to no avail. After taking a stroll, mainly to show the nurses my fiddle-like fitness, I lay back down to wait it out. Many things went through my mind, mainly the expressions on the faces of my visitors when at my bedside; one of bewilderment and sorrow, which made me feel ashamed for my casual indifference to the well being of my lungs. I read a few texts to lift my spirits, nearly all of which were from my good lady, but this served only to amplify my desire to accompany her to the gig that evening. 'Jesus, it would be sweet' I said aloud. 'What would?' Matron asked, ambling to my bedside, followed by two trainee doctors (smiling politely at the intrusion), and the man who held my fate in his hands. 'Nothing, just longing for the outside.' I replied, offering what I thought was the right balance of charm and confidence.
'Well, this is Dr Huw and he has some news'. That can't be good. If it was good news she surely would have emphasized it as such. The good doctor then commenced to lay some grim rap on me about the horrendous condition in which I came to them four days ago. He went on at some length, producing some harsh truths; my oxygen levels were abnormally low for a man my age (24); my attack could have been fatal; quit smoking or death will come far sooner than I could imagine. Sweet Jesus! With hindsight this was exactly the jolt I needed (I've not smoked since), but at the time it was brutally shocking. By this point I had conceded to at least another few days spent with the old boys but the good doctor saved his best for last: 'but I see your oxygen levels are back to where they should be and your peak flow rate has almost doubled so you're well enough to head home, Brendan.' Man alive, what joy! I grabbed my stuff, said a quick goodbye to the boys (now awake, wishing me all the best) and Matron, then made for the street.
Making my way back, the full weight of the experience began to sink in and the effect was profound. Calling it an epiphany would be to overstate it a touch, but I definitely had a greater understanding of the obligations and responsibilities in my life.
I eventually made it back to the flat around four. It was empty which gave me time to re-adjust to freedom. I made a few calls to tell about the good news, each varying in levels of nonsense (I busted out, bribed my way out, etc). I was growing restless when I heard my girlfriend call out from the hall. I rushed out to greet her and for a moment we stood motionless, watching each other with a sadness in our eyes before throwing our arms around each other, overcome with joy. It was the big pay off we both needed and it felt wonderful.
As for the Hold Steady that evening, it's difficult to describe. Anyone who has come across this band will tell about the rallying power they possess. They can soundtrack lives and re-invigorate the most cynical of souls. They lift spirits, confirm and create beliefs. That night saw them do all this and more, and it all seemed to be directed straight at me.
