Take a Moment

by Nina Kaye

  She approaches the end of my bed and takes a quick look at my chart.

  ‘You’ve been assigned to Dr Harlow. She’ll be doing her rounds late morning, so a few hours yet. Probably best you settle back and relax. Are you still feeling sick?’ She surveys my untouched breakfast tray.

  ‘Oh… a little.’ I shrug. ‘But not as bad as yesterday. At least my juice has stayed down this time.’ I tap my glass of orange juice.

  ‘That is a good sign.’ The nurse smiles at me encouragingly, then walks away.

  For a few moments, I just lie quietly, trying to persuade my body to surrender to the rest I keep being told I need. It doesn’t work. As someone not used to doing nothing, I’m soon looking for something to occupy me. Reaching over, I pull my phone and iPad out of my bedside locker. It’s early, but Dom will be up and getting ready for work by now. I tap out a WhatsApp message:

  Morning lover. Hope you got more sleep than I did. Been told the doctor will see me late morning. Fed up and bored. xx

  While waiting for Dom to reply, I open the BBC News app and scroll through the top stories. I’m halfway through reading about the latest political drama at Westminster when a WhatsApp badge notification appears at the top of my screen, indicating that Dom has replied. I immediately click into it:

  Morning kitten. Sorry you didn’t sleep well. I didn’t either without you beside me. Want me there for support when the consultant comes round? My boss will be cool with that. Dx

  I smile at Dom’s message. That’s exactly why I’m marrying him. He’s my rock. Always there when I need him, whether I know it or not. The latter is certainly the more common occurrence and sometimes a source of contention due to my independent streak – I prefer to believe I only need myself to get by. But in this case, probably all I need is a set of discharge papers and a lift home. I’m sure if I was dying, they’d have mentioned this. It’s probably just a smudge on the scan that’s made it hard to read or something. I’ve had inconclusive smear tests, which have been fine when they redid them. Reassuring Dom that I’m fine, I wish him a good day at work and tell him I’ll keep him posted on when I’m getting out.

  I switch back to the news, but I’m restless and it’s not long before I cast my phone aside in search of something more practically focused. Ignoring the persistent pounding in my head, I power up my iPad and spend some time browsing different sites for wedding shoes. It’s unlikely Sasha and I will manage our planned shopping expedition this weekend, so some early research will help save time when we do eventually go out together. I may be restless but I’m not feeling that sharp. I manage to create a shortlist of shoes for both of us: mine focused around beautiful high-heeled, lace-detailed peep toes, while ‘bit of bling’ strappy silver sandals make up the top choices for Sasha.

  While pondering what else on my wedding to-do list I could use this unexpected opportunity to address, I realise I’m actually quite beat. My head injury has clearly knocked me off par, perhaps helped along by the cold I’m developing – though I note that no respiratory symptoms have appeared. Deciding that maybe it’s best to do as the nurse suggested and try to rest for a bit, I lie back and close my eyes.

  * * *

  It feels like ten minutes later when I wake with a start, groggy, a path of drool tracking its way down the side of my chin. I quickly grab a tissue from my bedside cabinet and wipe it away.

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  I look up and see the nurse I spoke to earlier standing at the end of my bed. ‘OK, thanks. Think I manged to sleep for a few minutes.’

  ‘You’ve been out for three hours.’ The nurse points at the clock above the door on the ward. ‘Will have done you good. I was about to wake you. Dr Harlow has started her rounds.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I perk up slightly, hoping that means I’ll be home by late afternoon.

  ‘Expect she’ll be with you soon…’ The nurse turns away distractedly. ‘Oh, Elizabeth, love, you need to keep your nightgown on.’

  She makes a beeline for an elderly patient who is heading for the ward’s main corridor starkers. I watch this scene unfold in front of me, feeling a tinge of sadness that poor Elizabeth is so unwell, she no longer possesses the shackling inhibitions that keep so many of us in check. But I also can’t help chuckling a little as the nurse wrestles Elizabeth back to her bed and quickly pulls the curtain round just as an elderly male patient starts to wolf-whistle from the corridor. The cruel reality of ageing. Having a sense of humour must be an essential quality for the staff on this ward.

  To pass the time until Dr Harlow visits my bedside, I switch my iPad back on. My finger is hovering over the Safari icon, ready to resume my wedding-related research, when I spot the app for my work emails. Unable to resist, I bring up my inbox and scroll through the unopened messages from the afternoon before. Most of them are business as usual, but there’s also a thread titled ‘Re: Contingency for Finance Systems Project’. Curious, I tap on the latest reply and scroll to the bottom so I can read from the beginning. As I take in the words before me, I feel a sense of anger rising.

  ‘No. NO. Definitely not,’ I say out loud. ‘Laura, what are you doing?’

  They’re putting plans in place for a temporary project lead to take over in my absence. What is Laura doing? She has no idea how long I’m going to be off. Neither do I yet. But one thing’s clear. It will be for as little time as possible. Hell, I’ll be back next week if I get the all clear by then. It’s only Tuesday. There’s plenty of recovery time between now and Monday.

  I send an email to Laura to this effect and impatiently tap the side of my iPad with my fingers while I wait for her reply. It arrives quickly and her message is clear. I’m off sick, which means I’ve to stay away from my work emails or anything work-related. Full stop. It’s a message that’s padded out with supportive words, concern and querying how I’m doing, but all I can focus on is the line that says Alan Davies, my deputy project lead, is about to take control of my project plan, my team and my board reports.

  As I’m working myself up into a well-pulverised stew, I initially miss the approach of people to my bedside, looking up only when someone starts hauling the curtain noisily open.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ I force a smile, wrenching myself away from my work-related crisis, wondering why I have so many visitors.

  ‘Alexandra. Good morning.’ The oldest of three doctors, a very tall, thin greying woman, who smells a bit like my late grandmother’s wardrobe and sounds like she’s swallowed a broken harmonica, addresses me. ‘I am Dr Harlow. I understand you had quite a bump to the head yesterday.’

  ‘I did, yes.’ I hit the button to lock my iPad and give her my full attention. ‘Please, call me Alex.’

  ‘Of course.’ She nods stiffly, then gestures to her companions. ‘I am accompanied by two medical students this morning. They are here only to observe and further their learning. Are you comfortable to continue the conversation with them in attendance, Alexandra?’

  I glance at the two students hanging at the back, one male, one female, peering at me like I’m some newly discovered species. Although Dr Harlow is asking my permission – and she’s doing it very politely – I don’t really feel I have a choice. It reminds me of when I was a child and got a telling-off for asking my mother if Sasha could stay overnight, when Sasha was standing right there. I did it on purpose because it meant my mother couldn’t say no. Karma. Serves me right.

  ‘OK… sure.’ I half-smile at the two students, who immediately shuffle forward to get a better look at me.

  ‘Thank you, Alexandra.’ Dr Harlow attempts an amiable smile but it’s so forced it makes her look constipated.

  ‘It’s Alex.’ I bristle slightly, not used to hearing my full name, and not particularly liking it.

  ‘Of course.’ Dr Harlow purses her badly liplined lips. ‘Shall we get on then? Firstly, I know you have been through this a few times, but would you mind awfully telling me what happened to you yesterday?’

  Really? W
hy does no one write this stuff down? I sigh inwardly to hide my frustration.

  ‘Yes, I can do that,’ I reply. ‘I was out for a run yesterday lunchtime, something I’ve been doing regularly for the last few months…’

  I reluctantly take Dr Harlow through my well-worn story from beginning to end. She doesn’t ask any questions, just listens intently, giving absolutely nothing away, while her protégés watch on, totally mesmerised.

  ‘So, tell me, how are you feeling today?’ she asks once I’m done. ‘Any more nausea? Double vision? How are you feeling generally?’

  I do a quick self-check. ‘I’m OK. Felt a bit nauseous at breakfast time, but I kept down my orange juice, so that’s good. No more double vision.’ I hold up my index finger in front of my eyes to confirm this. ‘I only had that before the fall. Afterwards, everything was just really blurred, but that only lasted a few hours. Generally, I’m all right, other than a sore head, some fatigue and difficultly concentrating. Probably just be a cold coming on.’

  ‘I see.’ Dr Harlow nods, while the two students seem to lean in even further. ‘And these symptoms: the double vision, the fatigue. Have you had them before, Alexandra?’

  Seriously? She can get a medical degree, but she can’t remember what name to call me by? I furrow my brow but refrain from pointing this out. Probably best I keep her on side if I want to get home today.

  ‘Not that I can remember.’ I try to recount any similar episodes, but nothing comes to mind. ‘I’ve been fatigued like this before, but that’s just been my body fighting off some kind of cold or viral infection that’s doing the rounds at work. I don’t get properly ill that often. Lucky that way. My fiancé says if I wasn’t so damn clumsy, I’d be the perfect package.’

  ‘Have you always been clumsy?’ Dr Harlow asks.

  I mull this over. ‘Eh… no, actually. It’s pretty much just been the last few years. It’s because I’m so busy with work and other stuff. Always having to do everything on fast-forward.’

  My eyes dart to the male student, who’s had some kind of spontaneous reaction to this statement as if what I’ve said excites him. The moment he clocks my curious glance, his expression turns to one of fright, then stone.

  ‘Tell me more about that, Alexandra.’ Dr Harlow zones in on me. ‘In what way are you clumsy?’

  ‘Oh, you know, just walking into things, I’m not great at catching. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

  A sound like air escaping from a balloon erupts from the male student’s mouth. He immediately turns a stunning shade of scarlet.

  ‘Roderick, perhaps you need some water for that throat?’ Dr Harlow’s voice is steely.

  Roderick looks crestfallen as he scuttles off.

  ‘Thank you, Alexandra,’ says Dr Harlow. ‘Would you mind awfully if I did a few simple tests with you?’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ I say. ‘Are these to check on my concussion?’

  ‘They are to check your nervous system response.’

  ‘Right.’ I rub my pounding head, unsure what that means.

  Dr Harlow proceeds to perform some kind of sorcery as she carries out a number of bizarre visual and physical checks. She has me touch my nose, then her finger, repeatedly, asks me to resist as she pushes her hand against my arms and legs, and gets me to stand on the spot with my eyes closed and then to walk in a straight line, heel to toe. Finally, she asks me to sit on the edge of the bed while she taps at my knees with a small hammer. All the time this theatre is taking place, the remaining student peers at me from behind Dr Harlow, like an inquisitive meerkat.

  Once she’s finished her checks, Dr Harlow invites me to lie back on the bed. By this point I’m relieved to be able to do so, wondering how on earth I’m going to make it back to work on Monday if I’m this exhausted from a physical examination. My balance is also off, probably from the concussion.

  ‘I realise I’m not in the best form.’ I’m still panting a little as I say this. ‘But is there any chance I’m going to get home today?’

  ‘Definitely not today,’ Dr Harlow confirms. ‘But perhaps in a day or two.’

  OK, that I can live with. Monday could still be on the radar, as long as this fatigue lifts.

  ‘So, my concussion isn’t too bad?’ I ask.

  ‘Alexandra.’ Dr Harlow peers at me over her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. ‘Did Dr Amani mention to you yesterday that there were some anomalies in your MRI scan?’

  ‘He did, yes. Said you were going to review them?’

  ‘I’ve reviewed the results.’ Dr Harlow fixes me with her clinical gaze. ‘Alexandra, there’s no easy way to tell you this. Dr Amani was correct in what he thought he had seen on the scan yesterday.’

  ‘Which was?’ I suddenly feel uncomfortable with where this conversation is heading.

  ‘I shall explain so you understand the full picture. Normally we would not do an MRI scan for a concussion. Only a CT scan. Dr Amani was concerned by your account of your fall, notably your double vision. He thought it important to complete an MRI scan and spotted a couple of irregularities – some damage to your brain. We call them lesions.’

  ‘Some what? What does that mean? Are you telling me I’ve got a brain tumour or something?’

  ‘No. You do not have cancer, Alexandra—’

  ‘Well, thank the shining stars for that.’ I let out a premature sigh of relief.

  ‘What you do have…’ Dr Harlow continues. ‘…is an autoimmune condition called multiple sclerosis. Or MS, as you may know it.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Sorry… what?’ Suddenly, I feel like I’m trapped in a bad dream. ‘I’m in hospital for a concussion. I just had a stupid fall.’

  ‘I realise this is a lot to take in,’ says Dr Harlow. ‘In particular, as you had no awareness of your condition. It is generally not diagnosed in this way.’

  ‘Hang on.’ I stare at her in disbelief. ‘I’m still stuck at… what?’

  ‘Would you like me to explain some more about what MS is, Alexandra?’

  ‘No. I want you to make sense. And I want you to call me Alex. Is that really so hard?’

  ‘Of course. My apologies.’ Dr Harlow seems totally unperturbed by my reaction.

  ‘This can’t be right.’ I shake my head. ‘I know what MS is and I don’t have it. I’m healthy – well, not right now obviously because I have a cold and a concussion. But normally, I’m busy and active and successful. I have a really good career. I’m planning my wedding. I’m on top of everything. How could I do all that if I have MS?’

  ‘As I said, I realise this is a lot to take in.’

  Dr Harlow removes her glasses and sits down on one of the chairs beside me. Her shadow – aka the medical student – immediately follows suit.

  ‘It’s not a lot to take in.’ I exhale loudly in frustration. ‘You’ve just got it wrong.’

  ‘I wish we did, believe me. Medical professionals always want to be wrong when it comes to the diagnosis of life-limiting illness. But I am confident of this diagnosis. It is my responsibility to communicate this to you, as well as provide you with the treatment and support you need.’

  ‘MS is a death sentence. If you’re right, my life is basically over. I can’t afford for you to be right.’

  ‘That is not actually correct. Your life expectancy is not directly reduced by MS, although secondary complications can be a problem – particularly when the disease is well progressed. It is primarily your quality of life that will be impacted. There is no known cure for MS, but there are some effective treatments available to you. It appears to be in its early stages, and though it is hard to be sure at this point, early indications suggest it to be the relapsing-remitting type.’

  ‘Right.’ I stare at the blanket covering my legs, unable to deal with any more of this.

  ‘We will do some further tests to check there is no damage to your spinal cord,’ Dr Harlow continues, oblivious to my need to terminate this conversation right now. ‘And we can only rule out the
progressive type once we have monitored your disease pattern for some time—’

  ‘OK, well thanks.’ I cut her off. ‘I think I’d like to rest now. I’m very tired.’

  ‘Of course.’ Dr Harlow finally seems to get the message. She and her mini-me stand and move towards the curtain. ‘I understand that you need some time to digest this. I would like to talk to you some more about the treatment and support available to you, but we can do that later. Perhaps with your fiancé there for support?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble as she pulls back the curtain. The two of them disappear.

  I sit in silence for a moment, paralysed into inaction, while my usually pragmatic mind tries unsuccessfully to reboot itself. What the hell was she talking about? How can I possibly have MS? These people around me, they’re sick. Really sick. But I’m not like them. She’s got it wrong. The scan results must have been mixed up or something. I don’t need to understand about treatment and support options. What I need is a second opinion.

  * * *

  ‘Hi, kitten. How are you feeling?’

  I look up from my iPad to see a huge colourful bouquet of flowers with a body and legs approaching my bed.

  ‘Hey, lover.’ I grin at him. ‘How was work? Am I glad to see you, this place is driving me insane.’

  ‘Are you being a bad patient?’ Dom hands me the flowers, which are actually artificial ones, and sweeps in for a long, lingering kiss. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I’ve missed you more.’ I rest my forehead against his, breathing in his familiar scent.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ He pulls back and scrutinises my face.

  Not keen to start off on the topic of my health, I try a diversion.

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you for these. They’re beautiful. Peonies are my absolute fave.’ I stick my nose in the bouquet as if expecting them to have a fragrance.

  ‘I remembered they don’t allow real flowers in most hospitals anymore for hygiene reasons. Probably for the best though. I’m sure I remember bringing you home lilies once upon a time and getting an ear-bashing for it.’