by Nina Kaye
Her words trickle through my consciousness like bitter, seeping filter coffee. Her comment is completely inappropriate, another clue to her values. She doesn’t approve of homelessness, and it now appears she’s not a fan of diversity-friendly environments, even when everyone on this programme got onto it through merit alone – other than her.
I begin to wonder if she’d be just as scathing of my disability and the support I’ve had. I can certainly imagine a similar statement coming out of her mouth. This stabbing realisation, alongside the fact that I’m struggling a bit today, unfortunately propels me to lose my patience with her.
‘You do realise, Danielle,’ I say quietly, ‘that if you have to start a sentence with a disclaimer, it probably means you’re behaving exactly the way you claim not to be.’
She stops reading the information and stares at me coldly. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it, it was just an observation. Jeez, who made you diversity police?’
‘We all have a responsibility to live by the values of this company, Danielle. Even more so as potential future leaders here on this programme.’
‘Want me to remove that poker from your arse, Alex? Or can you manage yourself? You’re already on the programme, no need for your little act any more.’
‘Excuse me?’ I feel my body flood with angry tension in response to her bitchy remark.
‘Oh, don’t pull that with me,’ she sneers. ‘You make me sick with this Mother-Teresa-of-the-project-management-world thing you’ve got going on. You and Emmanuel: the way you trot around together like some kind of world-saving sisterhood. You’ve got skeletons the same as everyone else in life. No one’s perfect.’
‘Wow, that’s probably the first accurate statement you’ve made today. You’re right, I’m not perfect, but I do try my best – and that involves getting on with people and supporting them, no matter what walk of life they’re from.’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Bullshit. You hated me from the moment you met me. I’m from a different walk of life – in case you haven’t noticed. It just happens to be a better one than you. That’s how life worked out. You can’t hold it against me.’
‘I don’t. But what I do hold against you is how you behave because of it and the fact you got “Daddy” to get you a place on this programme.’
I’m shaking inside as I deliver this cutting statement, knowing full well I’ve let myself down. After months of holding my own with Danielle, I’ve allowed her to properly get to me, and I feel wretched about it. Especially as I’m here on a programme where I’m supposed to be demonstrating the very best of myself.
‘Everything all right, ladies?’ Terrence appears beside us before Danielle can spit back a response, but I can see from her face that she’s furious.
‘Yes, fine. We’ll take…’ I quickly scan the three challenges and pull one off the whiteboard. ‘…the culture change one. Seems really interesting: looking at our behaviours and what we stand for as an organisation. Right, Danielle?’
Danielle doesn’t miss the underlying message in my choice of task, but all she says in response is ‘whatever’, then she flounces back across to the group.
‘Do I need to be concerned about you two?’ Terrence asks me quietly.
‘No. It’s fine.’ I shake my head, the trembling finally starting to settle. ‘She got to me there, I won’t lie. But I can deal with her.’
‘OK, then. I’m aware of the politics here, and I’m also tuned in to how everyone is feeling about it.’
‘It just doesn’t reflect what this is supposed to be about, and I think that’s bothering people.’
‘I know. Good thing you’re all going to become great leaders who will protect that in the future. Your current CEO won’t be around for ever, you know.’
It’s a verbal nudge, which makes me chuckle.
‘I’m ambitious, Terrence, but CEO is a stretch.’
He looks at me questioningly. ‘Why is that? From what I’ve seen – perhaps minus the last five minutes, but we all have our moments – you’re absolutely the kind of leader an organisation like this needs as CEO. Don’t let the sexual inequality of our current society stand in the way of that.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not.’
I return to my seat, his words echoing in my mind. It’s not being a woman that will limit my career. Probably more what physical state I’d be in by the time I got close to an opportunity like that. And whether the likes of Danielle can successfully sabotage my career ambitions long before then.
Chapter 31
On Tuesday morning, my alarm goes off at seven a.m. as usual, but it’s far from a normal day. The first thing I notice is a slightly disoriented feeling. Still drowsy from waking, I’m momentarily confused, until I try to sit up and it’s like a car has parked on my torso. I gasp and strain but no matter how hard I try to force myself to sit up, my body will not cooperate. Exhausted and out of breath, I let my muscles relax and stare at the ceiling in consternation.
‘Shit,’ I cry out loud. ‘What’s going on?’
I lie there for another few moments, trying to tune in to what I’m feeling. I’m very weak and also clammy again, like yesterday. It’s like the car didn’t just park on top of me; it ran me over first – at high speed. With my attempts to sit up thwarted, I change tactics and attempt to exit the bed sideways. Putting everything I have into it, and using my body weight as a lever, I eventually manage to roll over on my side and slide out of the bed onto my knees. It’s as if I’ve attempted a marathon with zero training. I crouch there, panting heavily, sweat beads gathering on my forehead. My head swims and I have to grab at the bed frame to stop me from toppling over.
‘Oh, shit,’ I cry again. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’
I reach across and grab my phone from my bedside table. After I’ve caught my breath again, I google ‘MS relapse’. The list of symptoms in the top search result immediately confirms my worst fears. That’s what this is. I’m having another relapse. After months of hard work to get back on my feet and having a life again, I’m back to square one.
‘No,’ I wail. ‘This is not happening. I’ve got a project team meeting this morning. I need to be there.’
Clutching the bed frame, I attempt to stand up, but halfway to my feet I’m overbalancing again, my legs buckling from sheer exhaustion. I allow myself to fall forwards onto my bed. Then I use the last of my energy to pull my legs up, so I’m at least lying down again.
Shit, this is bad. What the hell am I going to do? One thing’s for sure, I’m not going to work today. I’m not going anywhere at all. I can’t even make it to my own kitchen.
As this thought crystallises, I realise that not getting to work should be the least of my worries. How am I going to drink? Eat? Go to the toilet? I’m in serious trouble here – exactly the kind of trouble my mother and sister predicted. I can’t call Matt; he doesn’t know about any of this and I’d be mortified if he found me in this state. There’s no way I’m calling my family and letting them gloat – because that’s what they’d focus on, not actually helping me. Sasha’s miles away, and anyway has to be at work herself. I realise I have no choice. I’m going to have to call a doctor. But first, there’s another call I need to make and I’m completely dreading it.
‘Morning, Alex.’ I hear Emmanuel’s kind and jolly voice in my ear after two rings. ‘Everything all right?’
I go to speak but nothing comes out. Shame and mortification settle over me like a thick woollen blanket.
‘Alex? Are you all right?’ Emmanuel’s voice changes to one of concern. ‘Talk to me. Can you talk to me?’
Tears prick at my eyes as I realise I must say the words out loud. I can’t stay mute on a call. Emmanuel will end up calling the emergency services.
‘I… I’ve had a relapse.’
There’s a momentary silence as Emmanuel digests this. ‘Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Are you at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘In bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, good. That’s where you need to stay. How bad is it – on a scale of one to ten?’
I consider playing it down, but where’s that going to get me? If this is anything like my last relapse, I’m going to have to fess up pretty quickly. And what scares me is that at this particular moment, it feels a lot worse.
‘It’s a ten.’
‘OK, sweetheart. First thing – I don’t want you to worry about work at all. We were prepared for this. We took you on knowing it would happen at some point.’
‘But it’s not “some point”. It’s too soon after my last one. I’ve only been with you a few months. Thought I’d get to a year, maybe even two, before this kind of setback.’ I flinch at how pathetic I sound.
‘And you may have that period of remission in the future, you know that. But we need to deal with what’s happening now. Alex, I know you’re on your own down here, so I hope you don’t mind if I ask you this: are you able to get out of bed?’
My throat tightens with emotion and the tears finally overflow, tracking their way down my cheeks. ‘No.’
‘OK, that means you need some help. Do you have anyone you can call? What about your boyfriend, Matt is it?’
Matt’s gorgeous face flits through my mind.
‘I can call the doctor,’ I say in a small voice.
There’s a pause. ‘He doesn’t know, does he?’
‘No.’
‘OK, I tell you what. I’m going to come to your apartment and be there with you until—’
‘Emmanuel, no. You have work to do. I don’t want to set you back too.’
I also don’t want her to see me like this.
‘Alex, nothing is more important right now than this. Plus – and I don’t want to upset you – I’m going to have to contact your letting agent to ask for a spare key. If you’re unable to get out of bed, you’re not going to be able to let me or a doctor in.’
This realisation hits me hard. She’s right. I’ve allowed myself to get into a ridiculous situation, all because I was determined to be independent and live my best life. Now I’m experiencing the humiliating result of that decision.
‘No, please don’t, Emmanuel. I can try again. It may be worse because I’ve just woken up.’
‘Alex, there’s nothing to be—’
‘Please, Emmanuel. Let me try first.’
There’s another short pause. ‘All right. But I’m going to stay on the phone. Please don’t overdo it and get yourself into a worse situation.’
‘I won’t.’ I put the phone onto loudspeaker and place it beside me. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘I can hear you.’
‘OK, let me try this.’
I repeat my previous movement, straining to roll over and then sort of falling out of the bed. By the time I’m on my knees again, gasping for breath, I know there’s no way I can make it to the door, not even by pulling myself across the floor.
‘Alex, you sound like you’re struggling.’ Emmanuel’s concerned voice comes through the speakerphone. ‘Please stop, and give me your address.’
Admitting defeat, I relay this information to her, then when she’s disconnected the call I put my head in my hands in despair. I no longer care whether I can get back into bed or not. After the high of the weekend, my life has just reached its lowest point yet.
* * *
By lunchtime, I’ve experienced the humiliation of a woman from my letting agent coming to my apartment to let my boss in, having to use a makeshift bedpan with Emmanuel’s help, and then being carted out to a waiting ambulance strapped to a wheelchair. I’m now lying on a hospital trolley in a cubicle of the A&E department of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham. Emmanuel has returned to work, but has promised to visit in the evening.
‘How are you doing, Alex?’ The nurse who’s been attending to me whips back the blue and white horizontally striped curtain and enters my cubicle.
‘OK, I guess.’ I fiddle with my phone absently.
‘We’re arranging a bed in neurology for you, and you’ll be taken for an MRI scan soon.’ She prods my ear with a digital thermometer, then reads the output on the device. ‘You’re still running a fever. I’ll give you something shortly to bring your temperature down.’
‘Sure.’
She stops and looks at me. ‘I know you came in with your manager, but is there anyone else I can contact for you? Parents? Husband-slash-partner? Any other family members?’
‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’
‘You shouldn’t be coping with this alone.’
‘I’m fine. Honestly.’
‘All right then. I’ll leave you in peace.’
She disappears out of the cubicle and I start scrolling absently through Twitter. As I do so, a banner appears at the top of the screen signalling a text message from Matt. I immediately click it open.
Morning, gorgeous. What are you up to tonight? I know I’ll see you tomorrow for band rehearsals, but I’m keen to have you all to myself for an evening. How about I come over with some healthy takeaway food? x
Ordinarily this message would have made my stomach perform a double somersault and fill with happy, fluttery butterflies. Today all I feel is empty loss as my decision to conceal my illness finally catches up with me. The stark realisation that I’ve been kidding myself is like a sharp kick to the guts. Matt, the band, my big career. I can’t sustain any of it. It was all just a fantasy. Emmanuel says my job is safe, but for how long? How can they keep me on if I suffer two relapses a year? And the leadership programme – there’s no question; I can’t continue with that.
I’m aware that I shouldn’t leave Matt hanging but, unable to give him the answer he’s looking for, I’m at a loss as to how to respond. I don’t want this to be the end, but what choice do I have? He’s been open about hoping there’s a future for us. But he’s also been really clear about the type of future he wants: that rosy picture of the two of us scaling hills together, with our adorable kids and a couple of dogs. An active outdoorsy family. It sounds wonderful, but it’s not a future I could ever be part of.
With frustrated tears in my eyes, I quickly tap out a message and hit send.
I’m afraid I can’t do tonight. Think this is all moving too fast and I’m just not ready for it. I’m so sorry, Matt. Please tell Sammy I’m sorry but the band is all too much for me too. xx
I put my phone down beside me face down and close my eyes in a bid to stop the relentless tears. After a few minutes it buzzes, signalling his response. I almost can’t bear to read it, but I’m unable to help myself.
If that’s what you want. Comes as a bit of a shock but I have to respect your decision. Shame because I saw such an amazing future for us. x
‘I know. But it wasn’t real,’ I whisper through my tears.
I’m suddenly overcome with grief for everything I lost when I found out I was ill – and everything I’ve just lost all over again.
Chapter 32
By early evening, I’ve been moved to the neurology ward. Due to staff shortages, my MRI scan and visit from the consultant have been delayed until the next day. It’s a dismal environment: a large shared room that smells of disinfectant, with some very poorly inhabitants (myself included, unfortunately). A repetitive frustrated cry accompanied by loud banging floats along the corridor from one of the other ward rooms: clearly a very distressed patient. As I learned from my first stint in this type of ward, neurological disease is one of the cruellest forms of illness.
I’m surveying my rubbery cheese and tomato omelette disdainfully when Emmanuel walks through the door. I place the heat cover back on my untouched meal and push the tray table as far away as my weak, fatigued body will allow me to.
‘Hi, Alex.’ She greets me warmly, her face full of sympathy. ‘How are you doing now?’
‘Basically the same,’ I grimace, trying to control the wobble in my voice.
‘Have you been seen by a consultant yet?’
‘No. Tomorro
w afternoon, they said. After I’ve had my scan in the morning.’
‘I see. Well, please let me know how that goes.’
‘I will. How was your day? Once you actually got there.’
Emmanuel sits on one of the chairs beside my bed.
‘Alex, please don’t feel guilty or embarrassed about this morning. A big part of my job is to look after the wellbeing of my team members. You’ll learn more about that – and how important it is – on your programme.’
‘I won’t really though, will I?’
These words are the final nail for me. The emotion I’ve been trying so hard to suppress spills over in a huge sob, quickly followed by another and another.
‘Hey. Come now.’ Emmanuel grabs some tissues from the box on my bedside cabinet and hands them to me. ‘What’s on your mind? You’ve only been ill for one day and you don’t have all the information yet.’
‘I’ve been here before, Emmanuel. It took me two months to get back on my feet then and this feels much worse. Last time, I could at least get out of bed, make it to the toilet myself – it was exhausting, but I could do it. Look at me now. I’m using a bedpan because I can’t even do that.’
Relentless tears pour down my cheeks at the injustice of it all.
‘I know, Alex. I can see you’re really not well. All I’m saying is that we don’t have all the answers yet so let’s not fill in the blanks ourselves.’
I stare ahead of me miserably. ‘Emmanuel, whatever this is, it’s been a wake-up call for me. I’ve taken on too much. Tried to pretend that nothing’s wrong and I’ve been kidding myself.’
‘You’ve had a positive and pragmatic approach to managing your illness, Alex. Making the most of opportunities that have come to you. I don’t consider that to be “kidding yourself”. Your application through New Horizons was a move that was well thought through and you’ve been keeping an active lifestyle, which is important for a person with chronic illness. What’s the alternative? You lock yourself away from the world?’
