The Skeleton Cupboard (30 page)

The dignified woman leaned forward and kissed her son on his forehead, both his eyes and his mouth. “Off you go now, my darling. Time to rest. Mummy loves you.”

The young man's mother stood away from the bed and sat back down, weeping silently. I took a few steps forward and placed my hand on her shoulder, and to my surprise she reached up and held it.

The boyfriend, whom I presumed was Joel, slid back next to his lover and cradled him gently while whispering against his ear.

Over time the breathing sounds became more and more labored, the rhythm erratic; the room was completely still. And then all the sounds stopped.

Pete moved gently toward the still body and, with a nod, closed the young man's eyes. The sound of sobbing broke through the silence.

The mother stood up and, after hugging each of the crying young men, walked out of the room. I followed her.

“Would you like me to take you to another room for a moment?” I asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Would you like some water?”

“No, thank you. Nothing at all. Just if you could be so kind—would you order me a taxi?”

“Are you going home alone? Would you like me to travel with you?”

“No, that won't be necessary, thank you. My husband is waiting for me at home.”

It felt so bizarre having a “normal” conversation with this woman who had just watched her son die.

“Oh. I am so sorry your husband wasn't able to be here.”

She looked up at me and smiled. “He hasn't spoken to Richard for three years.”

I didn't know what to say, so instead, numbly, I handed her a leaflet. “Should you ever feel you would like support, we run sessions for the bereaved.”

She took my hand. “Thank you, my dear, but that won't be necessary.” She handed the leaflet back to me. “I shall wait for the taxi downstairs in reception. Thank you for your kindness.”

And off she went as I stood still, clutching the bereavement support leaflet, unable to breathe.

*   *   *

The next session with Tom was back in the ward, where he had been admitted during the night after taking an overdose. Hearing the news, I was shocked.

When I arrived in his room and sat in the chair next to his bed, I was panting, having run from my office at the unit.

Tom slid a glass of water toward me. “I guess you aren't too happy with me?”

Tom seemed to have a slight smile on his lips, still stained black from the charcoal he'd been forced to ingest to wash the poisons out of his stomach.

“I'm curious, actually, Tom.”

“As in, why the fuck did you do it?”

I nodded.

“Well, why the fuck wouldn't I? It's my fucking life, sweetheart.”

He had no argument from me.

“You've no idea, no fucking idea, how this disease is literally doing my head in. I am fucking tired of it. I'm tired of the fucking pity and the compassion. I am tired of people telling me I look well when I know I look bloody hideous. Oh God, I am sick to bloody death of the mercy fucks and all those who now want to be my special friend.”

He looked at the glass. “My lips are dry.”

I moistened a flannel and handed to him; he held it to his mouth.

“I hate the bloody charity benefits and the fucking fund-raisers. The sodding visibility of this bastard bloody virus. And most of fucking all I
hate
being a poster boy for this illness.”

He gestured for the flannel to be wet again.

“Do you want me to wipe the charcoal off your lips?”

“Have I lost my fucking arms, sweetheart? Am I now not able to wipe my own bloody lips?”

He snatched the flannel angrily and started scrubbing at his dry, blackened lips; they started to bleed. “Fuck that.” Tom threw the flannel across the room and started to pull at the cannula in his hand. “I've got to get out of this fucking place.”

I jumped up and put my hand over his. “Stop.”

Tom tried to bat my hand away.

“Tom! Please stop this now.”

With a grunt he sat back in the bed and closed his eyes. “Wanna swap places, sweetheart?”

“How would that help?”

He looked at me and smiled. “It wouldn't, darling. Anyway, I wouldn't wish this on you; I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.” He paused and closed his eyes again. “Correction: There are a couple of arseholes I'd happily see in this position.”

The room descended into silence and I wondered whether Tom had fallen asleep.

I moved my chair.

“I'm still here, darling. Not dead yet. Ready to listen.”

This wasn't what I had expected: He asked me to help him get his head around the virus, yet now he was raging so much I felt totally out of my depth.

“I'm not sure I can help you, Tom.”

“And why's that, pray?”

“Because I think that you don't want to be helped.”

He opened his eyes. “OK, sweetheart. Thanks for dropping by. Leave like all the others.”

“What others?”

“The others who were defeated, like you are.”

“Defeated by what, Tom?”

He turned to look at me. “Defeated by this fucking virus defeating me.”

I was not going to be defeated.

“Listen, Tom. I feel bad if I've let you down, but let me just say this. I really think that what's going on here is that you've … is that you've…” I hesitated.
Did I dare say it?

“I've what, sweet cheeks?”

I swallowed hard. “That you've set me, and the others that came before me … you've set us up to fail.”

Tom put his head back, closed his eyes again and chuckled. “And why would I do that?”

“So that we can enable you to reinforce your helplessness in the face of this virus.”

There was no reply. I knew that I had screwed up badly.

“I don't believe in a higher power, so there's nothing for me to bargain with. I can't ask some god or other to get rid of my virus and in return I'll devote my life to good works, because I am not a believer. Also, there's no other place after this life that I believe exists. And even if it did, I wouldn't want to go there, because I have been so happy here nothing could be better.”

I sat still. I didn't want to make any sound.

“I was never out and proud. I have always just been me in my world, accepted for who I am. I have never wanted to be defined by my sexuality, and I have been lucky that generally it hasn't been a major issue for me in my life. Maybe people expect men in fashion to be gay, who knows? But the point is, now I've got this virus, I am defined as a homosexual, and I am expected to be loud and proud and fight the discrimination, and…” Tom started crying.

I moved my chair closer to his bed.

“And I just want to go back to being me.” Tom looked around for tissues and I passed him a handful.

“So tell me who you are, Tom.”

He blew his nose loudly. “Sorry?”

“Who are you? What's your legacy?”

“As in what will be engraved on my gravestone?”

“No, as in what you leave behind.”

“Some bloody nice clothes.”

“What else?”

“Employment for young, talented people.”

“And?”

“And wonderful parents, a sweet brother and many, many wonderful people that I am lucky enough to call my friends.”

“And what do they like about you?”

Tom smiled. “You'll have to ask them.”

“I'm asking you.”

“Oh stop, you're making me blush.”

I sat back in my seat.

“Well, people tell me that I am generous,” he said finally. “They tell me that I care.”

“And do you?”

Again Tom started to weep. “Yes, I do. Sorry—do you mind grabbing that flannel for me again.”

I found a fresh one and soaked it and then wrung it out.

“Can you promise me one thing?”

“Not sure, Tom. Try me.”

“Can you promise me that however I die, I won't lose my mind?”

Tom was asking about AIDS-related dementia, a cruel and nasty end to one's life.

“Why do you think that will happen to you?”

“My boyfriend died two years ago. I nursed him up until the end. He was completely gaga, in nappies and just reduced to nothing. He didn't even know who I was and at the very end became really aggressive.”

I thought of Harold.

“You nursed him to the end.”

Tom suppressed a sob. “Yes, I did.”

“Your friends are right. You really are a good and kind man.”

“I just can't lose my mind. Is there any way you can tell me that won't happen?”

I couldn't.

Tom closed his eyes again.

“Tom, tell me why you think you might be losing your mind.”

Now he was upright, looking straight at me. “I forget so many things. I can't get myself going. I just don't have any interest in getting on with my day. My brain is sluggish.” Tom punched himself in the forehead. “I fucking hate it.”

“Tell me about your sleep.”

“It's shit. I wake up early, I'm bloody knackered, but I can't get back to sleep and so I lie there thinking about how my brain is fucked.”

Although I'd been training for more than two and a half years, I still wasn't qualified, so could I go with my instinct? Should I run this past Chris?

“Tom, what you are describing sounds like clinical depression to me.”

His eyes were still closed, but I could tell that he was listening.

“I think that you are so overwhelmed by what you are dealing with and feel so hopeless in the face of it all that you have become depressed.”

After having attended only a few lectures on clinical depression and written three essays, I arrogantly carried on.

“Your sleep is disturbed, you have early-morning waking, and you have no motivation and find no pleasure in your day. Your memory is poor. You feel confused.”

Tom nodded.

“On top of this, I think that there may be an overlay of anxiety.”

Tom smiled. “Really, sweetheart, you noticed?”

“Just a tad. Why wouldn't you be anxious? But the thing about anxiety is that it further erodes normal brain function and can cause memory loss.”

Oh God, I hope I got that last bit right.

“So not dementia? Just anxiety and depression?”

“Well, not ‘just,' Tom, but I think it's something we should explore.”

“And can we sort the anxiety and depression out? Freshen my brain up again?”

“Tom, that's up to you. But if you want, we can try.”

*   *   *

Pete was waiting for me anxiously on the other side of the door.

“So is Tom still a risk to himself? Should I get the duty psychiatrist back down?”

A million possible answers went through my mind.

“No, I don't think he is.”

Pete looked relieved. “That's good.”

“But call the duty psych anyway because I think Tom might be ready for some help with his anxiety and depression.”

Pete shook his head. “He won't. We've been here before with him.”

“Try again. This time he might be more ready.”

“OK. If you're sure.”

In truth, I wasn't and I was shit scared.

*   *   *

I sat opposite Chris, hugging myself.

“I can't do any more death.”

“Why not?”

“I just can't. I can't disconnect myself from watching these men die, the raw grief of their loved ones, seeing their last breath. Chris, this is fucking up my head.”

“Why?”

I couldn't speak; I was too busy trying not to cry.

“What's happening with Tom?”

I tried, as best I could, to summarize my recent sessions with Tom and talk through my hunch that he was anxious and depressed.

“Well, if you've enabled him to acknowledge that, then that might be a step in the right direction.”

“But isn't that a psychology cop-out? Get the psychs in and pump in the drugs.”

“Depleted serotonin is depleted serotonin. Give the psychs a break.”

I felt relieved.

“And by the way. Good paradoxical intervention.”

Paradoxical what?

Chris spared me from having to reveal my ignorance. “OK, so remember your lectures on Ericksonian family therapy? Well, by suggesting to Tom that he was setting you up to fail him, you strategically enabled him to prove you wrong and do the opposite.”

I looked confused.

“That's when he engaged with you.”

Paradoxical intervention. Whatever.
I was done, worn out; I couldn't think about death anymore.

Chris changed gears. “So, about not being able to do any more death, what's all that about? Too much ‘stuff' getting in the way?”

Stuff? Stuff! Is that what you call it?

“You could say that.”

“OK, then let's talk about it.”

I looked up at Chris. Her expression was soft, her eyes focused on me. As I wiped my face on my sleeve, she fumbled in her bag and handed me a packet of tissues.

“Look, Chris. Thanks for the offer. I appreciate your kindness.” I paused to swallow hard. “Thing is, I don't think it's your job to give me therapy.”

Chris smiled. “Yes, you're right. Mustn't overstep the boundaries of the role.”

That wasn't the answer I expected.

“But maybe you don't need therapy right now. Perhaps all you need at this present time is a chat, some help to get you through this placement.”

Oh, if only it could be that easy, but I knew that it wasn't. I dreamed funerals. I had flashbacks to my grandmother's blood on the carpet, a huge red stain. I kept hearing my father howl. This wasn't going to be dealt with via a chat.

Chris leaned forward. “Look, you are not ready for therapy. Maybe one day you will be, but at this moment I think you've got enough on your plate without also having to dismantle and then reassemble yourself. Not the right time.”