Only One Woman

by Christina Jones

  You seemed to be getting on well together. I thought, maybe…?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s gorgeous.’ Understatement again. ‘But he’s got a fiancée.’

  ‘Ah. Shame. Anyway, having them here into the early hours is definitely a good thing,’ she looked at me, her eyes sad behind the glasses. ‘I doubt if any of us would have slept much tonight, would we? What with you going into hospital tomorrow…’

  ‘Today.’ I gulped. ‘It’s today, Mum. Now it’s Sunday. The operation is tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, Stella.’ Mum hugged me a bit more. ‘It’ll be ok. You’ll be alright. They’ll sort everything out and you’ll feel so much better again.’

  ‘I’m so scared, Mum.’

  ‘I know, love. I know.’

  ***

  Half an hour later, having said their goodbyes and thanks and offered a million times to do the washing-up, and having shaken Dad’s hand and kissed Mum, Narnia’s Children filed back outside into the bitter, glittery, icy night.

  Joss and Mo, already yawning, scrambled back into the van. Zak, shivering, lingered behind and asked Vix if she wanted a lift home and was most put-out when she said she was sleeping at my house, so he kissed her briefly and leapt into the van. Vix hugged herself, said it was far too cold to hang about and hurried back inside as Rich swung himself into the driving seat.

  Which left Scott. He paused beside me.

  ‘Goodnight. Have a safe journey.’ I said through chattering teeth. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  ‘For punching me?’

  ‘No – well, yes, that of course – but… I know about Renza.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I thought you might. They told you?’

  ‘They did. And they also told me that you love her and you’re going to marry her.’

  ‘Both true.’

  We stared at one another in the black, diamond-frosty night.

  He took my hands in his. I shivered. Not with the cold. His hands were icy and burned my skin like fire.

  He moved closer. ‘Take care of yourself. Don’t die. Please. I’ll be thinking of you, Twinkle.’

  ‘Twinkle?’ My voice was only a whisper. ‘Twinkle?’

  He smiled that lovely lop-sided smile. ‘Stella means star – I’ve had an education, you know. So – twinkle, twinkle little star…’

  I giggled.

  ‘That’s better.’ He smiled some more. ‘I mean it, Twinkle. Don’t die. You’re too special. Goodbye.’

  He let go of my hands, kissed my cheek very, very gently and swung himself into the van.

  ‘Goodbye…’ I whispered to the tall, dark, handsome stranger from over the sea. ‘Goodbye…’

  And I stood there, in the freezing diamond darkness long, long after the red tail lights had disappeared into the distance with my tears crystallizing on my cheeks.

  Stella’s Diary

  December 9th 1968

  ‘Wakey-wakey…’

  The voice echoed from the depths of a long, long, dark red corridor. I was warm and deeply asleep. I really didn’t want to open my eyes. My head felt heavy and I couldn’t move.

  I couldn’t move…

  I tried opening one eye and that didn’t work either.

  ‘Stella! Wakey-wakey! Come on, love!’

  I felt very sick. And I still couldn’t move or open my eyes. Was I dead?

  ‘Time to wake up, Stella!’ The voice was close to my ear, loud and irritatingly cheerful.

  Somehow, fighting the urge to be sick, I dragged myself out of the dizzying, dark red, roaring pit I appeared to be stuck in.

  ‘Hello,’ the cheerful voice said even more loudly. ‘You’re back with us, then.’

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ I croaked. And was.

  There was a lot of bustling round and mopping and reassuring noises.

  ‘There. All done. No, don’t try to move. I’ll give you something for the nausea. Stay still – it’s just a small injection – it’ll make you feel much better… there…’

  I felt something cold jab into my arm.

  ‘Am I dead?’ My voice crackled weakly.

  ‘Bless you. Of course not. You’re in recovery. We’ll have you back up on the ward in a jiffy.’

  I tried to let this sink into my swirling brain. ‘Recovery? Back? Is it over? The operation?’

  ‘Of course it is, love.’ The nurse came into view then, very blurry and smiley. ‘You’re just coming round, so you’ll feel a bit groggy.’

  ‘But – so, I didn’t die? I’m still alive?’

  The nurse laughed. ‘No you didn’t and yes you are.’ She was plump and the stripes on her uniform dress danced in zig-zags. ‘Now, just one thing – don’t try to move your arms, there’s a good girl. OK?’

  ‘Okay…’ My arms felt like lead weights. I’d have agreed to anything. Anything at all. I was alive! I hadn’t died under the anaesthetic!

  I smiled. Or tried to. I didn’t care how sick I felt, or how much I ached, or how weird any of this was – I was alive! Still!

  ‘Right, Stella, love – we’ll get the porters to whizz you back up to the ward as soon as poss. You’ll feel a bit sore I expect, but the ward nurses will give you something for that. Good girl, try to stay awake at the moment – you’ll feel so much better if you do – and mind those arms.’

  ‘Yes…’ I croaked obediently, wishing my head would stop spinning. ‘But my throat’s a bit sore… and my mouth’s dry…’

  ‘You can have a sip of water back up on the ward. Bound to be a bit dry – you’ve had tubes and whatnots down your throat and your mouth’s been taped open for ages.’

  Somewhere in my still-swirling brain I realised this should shock me but somehow none of it mattered. Not anymore. It was over. I didn’t die!

  ‘Good girl.’ The nurse patted my shoulder and stuck a thermometer in my mouth. ‘Ok. Temperature a bit high – I’ll get them to sort that out on the ward.’ There was a tight sensation in my upper arm. ‘Ah, blood pressure a bit low… we’ll have to see to that. But you’ve done really well. Oh, good, here’s the porters.’

  ***

  I have no idea how long it took to trundle me along miles of green-painted corridors, through umpteen sets of swishy plastic doors, past various lights in the ceiling. I was vaguely aware of the reassuring alive hospital smell of disinfectant and heat and municipal catering and hoped I wouldn’t be sick again while I was lying flat on my back.

  We crashed into the dimly-lit ward, through yet more swishy doors, and there was a lot of lifting and moving and shifting as the porters and nurses transferred me to a bed. My bed? The one I’d been in previously? I had no idea.

  ‘Right, Stella,’ a very pretty nurse who I’d never seen before and who honestly didn’t look much older than me, busied herself checking all my vital signs again. ‘I’m Mary and I’ll be here all night if you need me. Do you feel sick?’

  ‘No. Not anymore. Just thirsty. And a bit sore. And tired.’

  ‘Right. We’ll give you a pain-killing injection. Sister Wolstenholme will see to that. She’s in charge of the ward – and me. And you can have a sip of water. Then sleep. And you’ll feel much better in the morning.’

  Sister Wolstenholme – big and kindly – bustled up. Another injection. A mouthful of luke-warm water that tasted stale and was the loveliest drink I’d ever had. Then I realised why I couldn’t move my arms. I squinted at them. They were both supported by splints wrapped in bandages, with large cannulas attached to my veins with intravenous drip bottles suspended on either side.

  I watched with interest as blood dripped slowly into my right arm and a clear fluid into my left.

  ‘Saline solution,’ Mary said. ‘And a blood transfusion. You lost quite a lot of fluids according to the notes. We’ll have to top them up during the night, but you’ll get rid of them in the morning, hopefully.’

  ‘I can’t move. What if I need to –um – wee?’

  ‘Catheter, love.’ Sister Wolstenholme said cheerfully. ‘All draining out of y
ou and tucked away under the bed as we speak. No need for you to worry. That won’t be in for long, either.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I honestly didn’t care. I was alive. I worked some saliva into my mouth. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost 11.30,’ Mary checked her watch and grinned. ‘Past your bedtime.’

  11.30? At night? Crikey. I’d gone – happily floating on premed – down to the operating theatre at 3.30 in the afternoon. That was ages ago. The operation must have taken hours. I didn’t care about that, either. Because I wasn’t dead.

  ‘Right,’ Mary said. ‘I’ll leave you now. Try to sleep. I’ll pop over to you during the night – I’ll have to wake you up, I’m afraid, to check your temperature and blood pressure and change the drips.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I mumbled, suddenly desperately tired. ‘I don’t mind. I’m just glad I’m not dead.’

  Mary and Sister Wolstenholme laughed. I think they thought I was joking. I’d never been more serious in my life.

  Stella’s Diary

  December 10th 1968

  My consultant – Mr Glendenning – who I’d only ever seen at that final outpatient appointment, rattled the faded floral curtains closed and loomed over my bed. He was still tall, balding, stern-faced and terrifying. He had an extremely posh voice, half-moon spectacles, scared me witless, and had never, ever smiled. A small red-haired woman stood beside him, and they were flanked, as ever, by several youthful, white-coated boys and girls. Everyone was staring at me. And again they all had stethoscopes and clipboards.

  ‘You still have no objection to the students, I hope, Miss Deacon?’ Mr Glendenning boomed. ‘I believe you understand this is a teaching hospital.’

  Terrified, I shook my head. Then nodded. It covered everything.

  ‘Good.’ He consulted the chart from the bottom of the bed. ‘As I’d suspected. Laparotomy. Investigative. Ah, yes. You had – and have had – numerous neglected cysts and subsequent abscesses on your ovary – did you know you only have one ovary, Miss Deacon? No? Fascinating. Also on your uterus and surrounding pelvic sites. Some of these cysts and abscesses were geriatric and had become severely infected. We removed them all. We cleaned you up. A further course of intravenous antibiotics while in hospital, and oral on your discharge, should mean the tissue and organs stay contamination-free and heal naturally. Understand so far?’

  I nodded. It sounded like I’d been in a heck of a mess and now I wasn’t. It meant the pains would stop. It was all I needed to know, really. And I hadn’t died.

  He checked my pulse, looked again at my notes and nodded at the drips. ‘You lost a lot of blood. The operation took far longer than we’d anticipated. I will advise the nurses to remove the blood-transfusion bottle at lunchtime. The saline drip must stay for another 24 hours.’

  I nodded again. The students were scribbling on their clipboards.

  ‘Good.’ Mr Glendenning boomed even more loudly. ‘Are you married, Miss Deacon? I’m assuming not.’

  ‘Er… no….’

  ‘Planning on marrying in the near future?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right. But you have had sexual intercourse?’

  Oh my God. I turned my head away. I just wanted to die with embarrassment. What sort of question was that? In front of all those people? Strangers?

  Yes, of course I had… once. Just once. That hideously embarrassing once. Ages ago – in that caravan – with Mike, the one-and-only boyfriend.

  Crimson-faced, I nodded and muttered something. The students smirked. I saw the small red-haired woman look at me with deep sympathy.

  Mr Glendenning showed no such emotion. ‘Very well. Please refrain from repeating the process for at least eight weeks. You need time to heal.’

  ‘I haven’t even got a boyfriend…’ I mumbled.

  ‘Well, that will help,’ Mr Glendenning snapped, ‘but is of no interest to me. I will need to book you outpatients appointments once we’ve discharged you as there are a few issues looming. I will tell you this – although I don’t want you to assume it’s a green-light to promiscuity – but given the condition of your reproductive system, the chances of you ever becoming pregnant would be about as miraculous as the Raising of Lazarus.’

  Still desperately humiliated by the sex question, I seriously didn’t care. I didn’t care if I never had sex again. Ever. And, my mangled and mashed-up innards meant I may never be able to have children? I was 20. Single. No boyfriend. Never having sex again. It wasn’t a problem. Truly.

  Again the red-haired woman shot me a sympathetic smile.

  ‘I will leave you with Miss Edwards here to examine you, explain more about your operation, what the next stages of the treatment will be, and the implications.’ Mr Glendenning indicated the red-haired woman. ‘But, Miss Deacon, to reiterate, as you appear to have been born with a pretty useless reproductive system which, if I’m not mistaken, is already showing signs of advanced endometriosis, I doubt there will be very much good news she will be able to impart. Good day.’

  I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. I just wanted him and the smirking students to go away so that I could bury my burning face in my pillow.

  ‘Er… goodbye… and – um – thank you…’ I muttered.

  ‘Oh, don’t thank me,’ Mr Glendenning paused in pulling the curtains. ‘Miss Edwards was your surgeon. Not me. I simply oversaw the process.’

  He stomped away, mercifully followed by the students.

  Miss Edwards, my tiny red-haired surgeon, smiled kindly at me. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘It’s ok,’ I wriggled uncomfortably on my rubber sheet. I still couldn’t sit up. ‘I don’t think I want children. I’ve never thought about it. I’ll think about it later.’

  ‘Like Scarlett O’Hara,’ Miss Edwards smiled kindly. ‘But actually I was apologising for the excruciating questions. He’s an amazingly talented and enlightened man – there still aren’t many women surgeons and he pushed for me to be on his team – but his bed-side manner leaves a lot to be desired. I know how embarrassing that must have been for you.’

  I nodded. I really didn’t want to think about it. ‘I didn’t think there were lady surgeons, actually. And thank you for sorting me out and making me better. I was so scared. I thought I’d die on the operating table.’

  Miss Edwards chuckled and perched on the foot of the bed. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t have let that happen. It would look so bad on my curriculum vitae. Now, Stella, as you’ll have gathered, you were in a pretty appalling mess, and I’m confident that I’ve cleared everything out. However, you will have to have follow-up appointments and some possible heat treatment on the scar tissue, then further investigations… oh, and I’m afraid the information about infertility was very accurate. Still, as this isn’t a problem at the moment, let’s be positive and deal with the current issues. Have you looked at your operation area yet?’

  ‘God no!’

  Miss Edwards laughed. ‘Not that there’s anything to see – I’ve used metal butterfly clips, not stitches, so it might feel a little funny when you’re brave enough to touch it – and it’s well-covered up so there’s nothing gory to see, I promise you.’

  ‘Clips? Like bulldog clips?’

  ‘More or less, I suppose. Only smaller. More efficient than stiches for such a large wound.’

  I winced.

  She carried on, ‘I’ve also, bearing in mind that you’re so young, tried hard to keep the scar as low as possible. You should still be able to wear a bikini without it showing, and it will eventually fade even if it never completely disappears – but, a word of warning, it does go from hip to hip.’

  Hip to hip? Dear lord! I’d been sawn in half! I’d never be able to move again in case my innards spilled out.

  Miss Edwards pulled back the covers and lifted my hospital gown and gently prodded my stomach. ‘Yes, very good. It all feels fine. I’m not hurting you?’

  ‘No. I still can’t feel anything. I mean, I had a bad stomach ache ea
rlier and they gave me another injection.’

  ‘It’s a shame you’ve still got those drips in, otherwise you could have sat up and had a look. It’s quite psychedelic, actually.’ She chuckled. ‘Your stomach was painted with iodine pre-op, so it’s now a delightful orangey yellow, and I’ve used bright blue adhesive tape to cover the clips. Very colourful.’

  I closed my eyes. I really didn’t want to know. I knew I’d never be able to look at it or touch it anyway. I’d probably never be able to laugh or dance or swim or cry or cough… and I’d definitely never have a bath again in case it split open and I was left sitting in my own offal.

  ‘The clips should come out in 10 days. And if you’re doing well, with everything healing and returning to normal, you should be discharged within 48 hours after that.’ Miss Edwards grinned as she straightened my gown and the sheet. ‘Hopefully, we’ll have you home in time for Christmas yet.

  Stella’s Diary

  December 20th 1968

  I had my bulldog clips out today. I didn’t look. They gave the job to Mary, who, I’d found out was one of the really young SENs, watched carefully by Sister Wolstenholme. I don’t know which one of us – me or Mary – was the most terrified. But Mary did a grand job, and I listened to her sigh of relief as she dropped yet another clip successfully into the kidney dish with a metallic clang.

  ‘There. Last one done,’ she looked at me. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

  ‘No. Not at all. Thank you.’

  Both Mary and Sister Wolstenholme peered at the scar tissue and seemed happy.

  Mary handed me a mirror. ‘Have a look. Go on. Honestly. It’s ok.’

  I looked. I wasn’t scared of it any longer, but heavens above – it didn’t look ok to me. Miss Edwards’ “hip to hip” hadn’t been an exaggeration. I was bright orange from my waist downwards. The massive scar was raised, livid red and blobbed with congealed blood, and the clips had left two rows of scarlet teeth marks on either side of it.

  I looked like I zipped up.

  ‘Wonderful job,’ Sister Wolstenholme enthused. ‘You’re a lucky girl, Stella. The physiotherapist is delighted with you too, so you just need to get that temperature to stay down and the blood pressure to stay up, and we’ll be waving goodbye to you really soon.’