Authors: Stella Newman
The ventilators make a constant background noise – hissing and suctioning like a cheap hoover. And the monitors beep a lot – alarms going off every time a vital goes in the wrong direction. That noise that just went off is because Roger’s blood pressure, his BP, has fallen too low.
I know about BP.
I know about BiPAP. I know that two days ago during Roger’s angiogram, the cardiologist discovered a constricted artery and performed an ablation to stretch the aorta, via the femoral artery. As a result of a bacterial infection in the wound, Roger developed indicators of sepsis: tachycardia, a temperature of 39.9, chest pain and shortness of breath. And given his weakened state, the medics deemed
it in his best interests to protect against further heart and brain injuries; so he has been overdosed on barbiturates and his body cooled to 32 degrees – to induce the coma he is now in.
I also know that knowledge is irrelevant. It doesn’t protect you, or those you love, from their fate.
Knowledge is not power. It is the illusion of control.
To: Heather, Sandra
From: Laura
Subject: Thursday update
Still no progress I’m afraid. The consultant, Mr Dawson, hasn’t been round yet today – or if he has, he managed to avoid me. By all accounts he’s brilliant medically but his people skills leave something to be desired.
Sandra – visiting hours at the weekends are the same as weekdays – come whenever you like (don’t worry about bringing
flowers.)
I’ll be back in the office tomorrow morning, provided things stay stable here.
To: Laura
From: Sandra
Subject: re: Thursday Update
Don’t worry about tomorrow – there’s not much for you to do here in his absence, although I do need you to decide about May’s column asap. Given the current circumstances it would be appropriate to issue a full apology. Therefore I’d appreciate it if
you could draft something over the weekend and show it to Heather and myself first thing Monday.
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: Tonight
Sorry I didn’t pick up earlier – you’re not meant to use your phone on the ward, although Arthur’s wife (Arthur’s on Roger’s right) is shouting into hers constantly. I have no idea what’s wrong with Arthur – he’s conscious – but they keep on drawing the curtains
round his bed, then emerging five minutes later looking most perturbed.
Thanks for the dinner invite but I’m going to stay here till they do handover, then head home and crash. I forgot how entirely exhausting it is, waiting around all day. Besides, you’ll be seeing me plenty over the weekend . . .
To: Elizabeth Harris
From: Laura
Subject: Friday Update
Just to let you know there’s not much
to update you on – which is no bad thing in this ward. His kidneys are still functioning and his numbers are stable.
I hope I wasn’t too pushy on Tuesday but I feel it’s far better to be safe than sorry about these things – you have to live with the consequences either way for rather a long time.
I’ve spoken to my flatmate and Gemma’s welcome to have my room over the weekend – just let me know
when she’s landing and I’ll meet her at Paddington.
To: Laura
From: Elizabeth Harris
Subject: Update
It’s all still a bit of a shock – when my neighbour had a stent put in I remember it was reasonably straightforward.
You weren’t pushy – if you hadn’t had the foresight to call it on the spot, Gemma would have had to wait another day for her internal flight. She’s in Bangkok now – so will
be landing tomorrow morning. I’ll drive down on Sunday and then she can stay with me in the hotel. I won’t come to the ward immediately. I have a terrible chest infection and my doctor said it would be unwise.
Do you think Roger is aware of what’s going on around him? Is it true they can hear music? If so, could you possibly get hold of a record called ‘A Bushel and a Peck’ please – from the
Guys and Dolls
soundtrack – and play that to him? I’ll give Gemma some money on Sunday.
To: Elizabeth Harris
From: Laura
Subject: re: Update
Some doctors say the patient picks up on sounds, some say they don’t – I always thought on that basis why wouldn’t you try? I’ve bought the record on iTunes and am playing it to him now. For what it’s worth, he looks peaceful and content.
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: Friday update
Today’s nurse, Tim, is lovely – very gentle. He’s been talking to Roger. A lot. In fact I’m sure Roger was blinking with boredom earlier when Tim was telling him about his caravanning holiday – though they do say blinking is just a reflex.
Roger’s consultant is still avoiding me, though I tracked down the sister and she said not to worry about his BP. She said
some days good, some days bad. That’s the worst thing – when you think you’re making progress and then something else goes wrong. With Mum, it was like a vicious game of dominoes – once things started to fall . . . Anyway, am keeping a close eye on all his signs, and his ECG and JVP are looking OK at the moment.
To: Laura
From: Sophie
Subject: re: Friday update
Is the nurse on her tea break?
You should think about re-training.
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: re: Friday update
I couldn’t do it in a million years – hardest job in the world. They’re monitoring him 24/7, but they do occasionally have to leave his bedside – and I just feel he’s safer when I’m watching too.
To: Laura
From: Dad
Subject: Any news?
Are you OK? I’m worried, I’ve tried calling you and can’t get through.
Any developments?
To: Dad
From: Laura
Subject: re: Any news?
No news. Sorry, my phone is off when I’m in the ward and then I keep forgetting to turn it on.
To: Laura
From: Dad
Subject: re: Any news?
Make sure you get some rest. It’s important you look after yourself. Surely you don’t need to be there every day – where’s his daughter? Please Skype me tomorrow.
To: Dad
From: Laura
Subject:
re: Any news?
I’m not there all the time, Dad. I just don’t like the thought of him being alone if anything were to happen. May not have a chance to Skype tomorrow – have to do laundry, meet Gemma at Paddington, drop her stuff at the flat, then take her back to the hospital, etc.
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: Saturday Update
Thought I’d pop in to see Roger early – en route to meeting Gemma
– and guess who was sitting there holding his hand? Sandra. She must have arrived at 7.00 a.m.! I thought she was going to get all King Lear on me but she behaved herself (well, in my direction at least.)
She started being horrendously officious to the nurse, who was having none of it – then demanded to ‘talk to an actual doctor’. I had to leave her to it – not a fan of the bedside squabble,
had too many of those with Jess, back in the day . . .
Gemma’s in with Roger now. Even though the doctors have told her he’s not in pain, and he doesn’t look like he’s in pain, I can see it hurts her so much she can hardly breathe. She looks and dresses so much more sophisticatedly than I did at nineteen, I forget she’s still so young. I’ll take her for dinner afterwards – I suspect she’ll want
to talk about it. I remember with Mum I was OK when I was with her or with other people but when you’re on your own it moves from being a surreal bubble you feel bizarrely protected in, to something extremely real.
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: Sunday Update
Sorry again about last night – I owe you big time. Gemma refused to eat any of her pizza, and I didn’t realise until too late that
she’d ordered and drunk a second bottle of wine. I couldn’t send her into Amber’s flat in that state.
It’s weird – when someone else is even more scared than you, it forces you to be the brave one. I always wondered why Jess seemed so calm about Mum – but maybe it’s because she had to be.
Roger’s had a pretty good 24 hours according to Anne-Marie, today’s nurse. She’s my favourite so far. She’s
entirely optimistic and says she’s seen far worse than him pull through.
Also, she gave me the lowdown on his bedside neighbour. There but for the grace of God! Something reversible but dodgy happened to Arthur’s brain during his lung operation and now he swings between punching the poor nurses, and compulsively
beating his old man
(Anne-Marie’s expression, not mine). I wondered why they kept
drawing the curtains. Poor man/poor nurses. They’ve had to wrap his hands in bandages, and now they’ve put giant mittens on him, too. It doesn’t stop him punching, but I suppose it makes the other more of a challenge . . .
To: Laura
From: Sandra
Subject: Your column
Just a reminder that we need to see your column tomorrow so we can release it on Thursday. Heather will obviously need to go
over the exact wording with you thoroughly. I’ve attached a standard apology template you might consider following.
See you in the morning.
To: Laura
From: Sophie
Subject: Oy, you!
I’m pretty much insisting you come home, eat something and have an early night. You are running on empty – and that won’t do Roger, you or Gemma any good. Plus I want to talk to you about stuff.
To: Sophie
From:
Laura
Subject: re: Oy, you!
Sorry – I know I’ve been totally absorbed in this bubble since Tuesday. Is everything OK?
To: Laura
From: Sophie
Subject: re: Oy, you!
Yes, of course – I meant talk to you about
your
stuff – your column, Adam, etc!
To: Laura
From: Dad
Subject: Phone
Please could you call me later. I know you’re busy but I’d like to talk.
To: Laura
From: Jess
Subject: Dad
Could you stop ignoring Dad? He’s worried about you.
To: Jess
From: Laura
Subject: re: Dad
Will the pair of you just leave me alone for five minutes, I’ve got stuff on –
as you know
. I’ll call him tomorrow.
On
the Tube home on Sunday night I find myself staring at the man opposite me – specifically at his feet. He’s sitting, legs spread wide, a Nike shopping bag on the floor next to him and
he’s wearing his brand new Air Max Ones. He’s telling his girlfriend why they’re such a design classic, and she’s nodding, her arm entwined in his, looking down at his trainers in appreciation.
They are nice trainers, I think: clean design, bold colours, currently box fresh so they look as good as they’re ever going to. But they’re making me dizzy. The thought anyone could ever care about trainers,
care about shoes, care about things you buy in shops when Roger’s lying there, tubes piercing his bruised body . . .
Roger’s only been in hospital for six days and yet the world of hospital has swelled like a balloon inside my head, taking over entirely. The only reason I feel OK leaving him now is because Gemma’s still at his bedside – keeping guard. Someone has to keep guard.
ITU is a world
that breeds superstition. If I don’t walk up the staircase to the ward, rather than take the lift, something bad will happen. If I don’t dispense exactly three full squeezes of antiseptic handwash on my way in – and out – something bad will happen. If I leave the bedside for longer than twenty minutes to get a coffee – something bad will happen. The ward is full of people like me, who share a belief
that while our eyes are fixed on the patient, nothing bad can happen. We tend to ignore the fact something bad has already happened.
It occurs to me, on the Tube, as a waft of my neighbour’s McDonald’s assaults my nostrils, that I haven’t eaten since last night’s pizza. I have no appetite – just a general sick, panicky feeling I used to have when Mum was ill, fed by the belief: hospitals are
the worst place in the world for someone who’s ill; the fear that every day Roger is stuck in that prison of superbugs, there’s a chance of further infection – and there’s nothing I can do to help him escape.
At the 24-hour mini market, I force myself to buy a floppy tomato sandwich – the best of a soggy selection. I’m going home to have a hot bath, and hope some of this adrenalin pulsing through
me will dissolve in the bath water so I can sleep. I don’t want to speak to anyone, definitely not Dad, not even Sophie. Sandra will go mad, but I’m entirely not able to write my apology tonight.
But lying in bed, with my eyes shut, I still have business to take care of. I’ve been working through the details for days – and now I have an offer to put to the Lord Almighty. If he lets Roger pull
through, reasonably unscathed, then I promise to do the following:
Sandra’s not exactly Roger’s natural replacement in terms of charisma. She’s been running this meeting for all of four minutes and she’s already lost the crowd.
‘OK . . .’ says Sandra, looking at the glum faces round the table. ‘May’s issue, the cover story is on the Tanquine art collection. Heather – how are we looking?’
‘Yep,’ she says wearily. ‘We’re not exposed to much risk on this
one, famous last words . . .’
‘What’s going on with the turkeys?’ says Jonesy. ‘Fletchers have pulled May’s ad from the plan; are we going to apologise over the shed space allegation or what?’
‘We are not going to apologise, Al-is-tair,’ says Sandra, with an exasperated huff.