It was Saturday. There seemed to be some sort of colourful, noisy procession at the Sèvres-Babylone crossroads. Another student rag to cut me off from Robert? I cut through some small narrow alleys, relying on my sense of direction to bring me out opposite the hospital entrance. I spotted a little shop-cum-café displaying Vietnamese specialities in its very clean window. I dashed in and bought two Rouleaux de Printemps—a refreshing snack or starter made with prawns and rolled in rice paper—and a plastic sack of prawn crackers. I remembered Robert enthusing about Thailandaise and Vietnamese cuisine. These small purchases were my undoing for as I emerged across from the dilapidated hospital walls I realised I was slap bang in the middle of the Marathon. The runners were between me and the entrance. Another desperate person—a man—stood peering amongst them, as anxious as I to get across the road. We stood for half an hour watching the athletes, the game oldsters, the light-hearted youngsters, the roller-skaters, the handicapped in wheelchairs, the bizarrely costumed, the early quitters. At last we looked at each other and shrugged. With one accord we moved further along the Rue de Sèvres then plunged in amongst the runners. If you can’t beat them, join them. We zig-zagged our way along and luckily were able to dodge out of the morass by the portals. As I had thought, he too was going into the hospital and he had the anxious look of a visiting relative. I smiled at him. It had been comic—maybe I could make Robert laugh in the re-telling.
He lay awkwardly propped on one hip, his head half-hanging over the side of the tall bed. His mouth was still stretched into the exaggerated O where the thick tube had taken over his breathing. He was moaning softly to himself and his forehead was deeply furrowed with a frown of agony. He looked at me reproachfully. I took a step back. I must not add to his misery. He shook his head.
“We—we—were doing so well…” he whispered apologetically. I realised that, as at Bicètre, he was sharing a room. I was later to learn that this had been psychologically good for both patients who had literally been operated on simultaneously—an experiment to see if they could urge each other on—and later on was to earn them the nick-name of The Terrible Twins. The other man was lying on his back, his eyes closed, crying, “Oh non! Ça n’est pas vrai!” over and over again. His pyjama jacket was open and I was shocked to see the great, livid wound, crudely stitched, from throat to waist. I turned back to Robert, helpless and weak as a kitten, eyes pleading for my comfort. I looked at his scar as he moved onto his back. If anything, it was worse than the other man’s. Not only was it oozing here and there—it was puckered and cobbled together just like a turkey trussed for the oven. Two wires protruded from his stomach either side of the navel.
I bent forward and pressed my lips to the troubled forehead of my beloved.
“I’ll come back soon,” I said and was unimaginably suffused with happiness when he bravely smiled his response. He had been an accomplished lover, a vivacious suitor but it was here, in this none-too-clean, bare hospital room that he conquered my spirit.
At home, I threw myself on my typewriter for an hour and then lay on the sofa making wild, wonderful plans for our future.
Intensive Care
by Gabrielle Parker
The gleaming whiteness finally woke him. He had resisted its persistent glare time and time again, screwing up his eyes against it, fighting to hang onto the bliss of unconsciousness. Because with awaking came discomfort, all-over discomfort—then a more definite ache here, a twinge there—and finally the dreaded awareness of the excruciating pain across his chest. But all the time he had known he could not hold out forever. Now, he opened his eyes wide and stared about him.
Slowly, he discovered the room into which he had been wheeled last night, blissfully light-headed with the pre-med injection, a pleasant drowsiness, reminiscent of drunken stupors after an hour or two standing at a bar after a long working day, dimming the harsh overhead lighting to an acceptable glow. Now, the searching dazzle shone relentlessly into his tired eyes and his ears were assaulted by the steady hum of machinery. Gingerly, he turned his head and saw the streamlined appliances ranged around him, bleeps and pilot lights indicating that he need make no effort in order to breathe or survive—he was perfectly safe with all these wonders of modern science doing his ticking-over for him. He relaxed, but only for an instant—for now, the numbness of his face and limbs gave way to an uncomfortable awareness of the tubes in his mouth and neck, the wires in arm and stomach connecting him to the gleaming battery of electronic gadgetry. He pressed chin to chest and peered down the length of his body, unsheeted, naked, the great wound tightly cobbled together with ungainly stitches, reminding him hysterically of the Christmas turkey trussed for the oven. Slowly, he raised the arm that was not connected to the heart and lung machine and gently laid his hand over the region of his heart.
It felt normal enough, the beat faint but steady, gradually learning to take over for itself…and now, he recognised the surgeon’s face bending over his…was it minutes or hours ago…smiling and nodding and making a thumbs-up sign. A nurse, too, whom he imagined must still be in the room somewhere behind him, had made encouraging signs as she peered at the dials and screens of his other half—his mechanical Siamese twin. His eyes roved further afield and spotted a lettered sign. For a moment, his brain struggled to recognise the pattern of the word. Then with relief he strung the syllables together. Ré—ani—mation. Of course—he had forgotten—he was in France—in Paris to be exact. The Hôpital Laënnec, Rue de Sèvres. That was why the Professeur de Chirurgerie and the nurse had communicated with him in sign language—they did not know how well his understanding of their language would stand up under stressful conditions. They knew only the bare facts about him—that he had been living in Paris for six months, that he was fifty-five—that the aortic valve must be replaced. He was just one of the hundreds who passed through this room every year—French, Algerian, Egyptian—and the occasional Englishman. They did not realise what a Francophile he was—how he had yearned for thirty years for the cuisine, the ambience, the women—of France.
He turned his head as far as the clutter of pipework would permit, seeking the nurse. He seemed to remember her as very attractive—pear-shaped, but in the reverse sense to Englishwomen—these French girls had enormous breasts and slim, boyish waists and hips. He was sure she must be here—they would not leave him alone in these first, critical hours. Yet he felt alone and the sudden sensation of fear manifested itself in a cold sweat. He was used to this sudden outbreak of unincited perspiring. It was one of his recurring symptoms. Yet, surely the doctors had assured him it was just one of the side effects of the turbulence caused by his systolic heartbeat—the artery, too narrow, probably a congenital defect, caused the heart to pump too vigorously—thus the cramps, the breathlessness, the sweats. All the same, he knew in his subconsciousness that there was another reason for this occasional dreadful sinking sensation—this lonely fear…but no, he could not think of that. Never. It was so long ago—he had atoned for it since. Everyone was allowed one lapse from the straight and narrow…he had been young, self-centred as only a twenty-year old can be…no thought for the future. Yes, he had paid for that mad, delicious folly.
After a glorious two years in Paris as a student, he had returned to England, sobered down, found a dull, steady job, married the boss’s daughter. He had kept well hidden, he was certain, his disappointement with Helen as partner, lover…he had been blandly faithful if not over-warm to her till her death last year. And now, to be struck down with this heart thing so soon after he had decided to throw up his safe and boring London life and spend some time recapturing his lost youth in his favourite city—what irony! What bad luck. But there had been a reprieve. His fatigue, his pain, his depression—all could be cured. His was a mechanical defect, it turned out—the operation a routine one, now performed daily by this Master Surgeon. After it, he would be good as new. He could go on with his search for Sandrine.
He moved slightly on the hard, high bed. The
pulling of the stitches across his thoracic wound was excruciatingly painful. Tears squeezed from his eyes. Was he crying in pain, he wondered—or with the thought that Sandrine was probably dead, too, like his wife—like Gérard…no, he would NOT think of Gérard…he had buried the memory deep, deep as the coffin containing the bloated body of his best friend. Suddenly he was cold—cold as death—and how could that be in this strictly-controlled temperature….where was that nurse? He remembered the buzzer. He must call for help…he was afraid, terrified.
As his hand groped for the bell, a figure rose out of nowhere at the end of the bed—a figure in a grey, soiled, indescribably disgusting version of the crisp white uniform of the nurses who had surrounded him last night. It was masked, this figure, with a torn, slimy, dull brown strip of flapping cloth which it now ripped away with swollen pale fingers—to reveal the hiudeously distorted features of his friend, washed up on the bank of the Seine a week after he had learned that Sandrine had betrayed him….
It advanced, this wretched, grimacing thing, to the head of the bed and behind it came two other ghastly apparitions with emaciated, skull-like faces, still just recognisable as horrible caricatures of Helen and Sandrine….
In unison, the three macabre beings pulled at the tubes, disconnecting his life-support system and then, with cruel grins of triumph began to tweak out his stitches and grope inside…for…his…heart.
Chapter 26
Mabiche visited Robert two days later. When she returned, she was able to tell me the life history and current circumstances of his room-mate. She had met Philippe’s family—his wife and two teenaged children. The nurses had told her of the splendid way the two patients had encouraged each other, the rituals that had evolved as they compared their temperatures, their pulse rates, their general progress.
“The Terrible Twins—everyone calls them that,” said Mabiche. “Though I’m sure Philippe has gained more from Robert than the other way round,” she added proudly.
I was amused by the way she had transferred some of her fierce loyalty to him. She seemed never to have been swayed from her original convictions that Robert was “the one” for me. I hated to disappoint her, but I was desperately afraid that the affection was all on my side now and the more I tried to help, the more I seemed to be driving him away. I had sent flowers and fruit, books (not the two I’d bought at FNAC’s) and bottles of juice—Mabiche had staggered under the weight of her basket; now, it seemed he was sharing all this bounty with Philippe, was getting closer to this man, with whom he could have nothing in common except the operation, than to me. And I could not push him, pull him, demand a statement from him, not while he was still ill.
“I’m not just talking of material things,” said Mabiche. “Though poor Philippe is a victim of our times. Did you know he’s been unemployed for a year? I know you’ll be pleased to hear that Robert refused his offer to pay his share of the television set you rented for him….”
She looked at me closely.
“Robert’s still quite determined to repay you for everything later,” she said.
I refused to be drawn into this particular discussion with her. She was probing to try to make me admit my feelings for him. I daren’t put it into words—my need of him, my anguish, in case he should no longer want me.
We went together the next visit. Mabiche had a plump, cooked chicken under the magazines and flowers in her basket. Because of the necessity of controlling the density of the blood flowing through the replaced valve, a strict, almost saltless diet was imperative, but both men had complained that even allowing for this necessary limitation, the dishes served up to them from the hospital kitchens were unpardonably soggy masses to look at and dreadful to taste. Mabiche declared that Robert had lost far too much weight—whereas Philippe ate what he was given, complaining loudly whilst doing so, Robert hardly touched the unappetising food. She herself had roasted this bird with the minimum of seasoning but plenty of herbs rubbed into the skin and whole lemons and onions inside the carcass.
We peered through the “porthole” on the door. I felt myself go cold all over when I saw that Robert’s bed was empty. A small dark, miserable-looking woman in drab clothes was standing talking to Philippe. He was propped up on pillows, his face cheerfully animated, very different to the pathetic creature I had last seen stretched out in agony, crying out that it couldn’t be true.
Mabiche pushed open the door and began conversing in Parisian argot which I did not even try to follow. I kept looking at the empty bed and thinking the worst.
“He’s gone down for an X-ray,” Mabiche informed me at last. “Philippe went earlier this morning—it’s just routine.”
“Yes,” said Philippe’s wife grimly. “The blonde nurse wheeled him down, so he’s not complaining.
I went out into the corridor and walked slowly past the rooms till I saw the little Egyptian boy. His door was wide open and he was dressed in outdoor clothes.
“Hello there!” I said in English. “How are you now?”
“Thank you. I am well,” he replied. “I go home this day. My father comes for me soon.”
The father, himself a doctor in Alexandria, had stayed in Paris the three weeks his son was in the magic hands of Professeur Neveu. I wished the boy well. He certainly looked fit.
I looked about for the older Arab boy I had seen the first time I entered this building. He had nodded and smiled at me on the way out and on the second visit—he was so handsome, so cheerfully friendly.
I heard a soft, crying sound coming from another open doorway. I peeped in and saw this same teenager lying ashen-faced, the once smooth forehead disfigured by wrinkles, the open pyjama top revealing the tell-tale stitches. He was connected to a drip. He saw me, raised his head laboriously and tried to smile. The crying was coming from the other bed where another boy of eighteen or nineteen was tossing and turning.
My young Arab friend pointed and said “Italian!”
Mabiche had already told me that all the Italian males here, from nine years old to fifty-nine, telephoned their mammas every day—she had had to provide some of them with change for the phone.
I looked in at the nurses’ room.
“The boys next door,” I said. “They seem rather—distressed.”
“Ah yes,” she said. “For the Arab, things are going rather badly,” she admitted. “The other—he is just a spoiled boy wanting his mother. By the way,” she added, “thank you for the chocolates. We do appreciate your gift. And, as for that chicken your friend has just hidden in Mr. Tardy’s locker—I myself will make a salad to go with it for our Terrible Twins.”
Her jet black face was split by a sudden grin. I smiled back at her then went on as far as the lift to wait for Robert. I peered down the adjoining stairwell. It was formidable—the sort of steep spiral that would surely have the fittest athlete out of puff if he attempted the three flights at one go. And coming up it was Robert, a look of triumph on his face! He was not exactly bounding up, two steps at a time, but I could see the measure of his achievement writ large upon his face.
“See!” he called. “I’m a new man—like they promised.”
Before I could congratulate him, the nurse appeared behind me and began telling him off in her good-humoured way. Not for going along the draughty corridor and across open courtyards dressed only in pyjamas and robe. Not for using the stairs and ignoring the lift. It seemed he had been too impatient to wait for a nurse to accompany him—his crime lay in going alone.
“They encourage you to get up almost at once,” he told me as we walked back to his room. “And when we get to the next place, they’ll expect us to jog twice a day—Philippe’s wife has been going on something awful because he asked her to get him a track suit. Poor fellow.”
I realised that he was pitying his new friend for his marital problems as much as his financial ones, but my ear had caught onto his first words.
“The next place?” I asked.
“Yes—they say there�
��s a marvellous Recovery Unit out in the country with facilities for heart scans. I’m eligible because I started the treatment—thanks to you—at Bicètre. I’m trying to wangle a place for Philippe, too.”
“I’ll see the Professeur straight away,” I said eagerly.
“No!” he said abruptly. We had reached his door. He lowered his voice. “Please—I can’t keep accepting your help,” he said.
I was terrified that if he got upset it would be bad for him. He seemed indeed to be swaying a little.
“Very well,” I said calmly. “I’m sure you’ll be able to arrange it. No-one here would stand for the splitting up of the Terrible Twins, I’m sure.”
I felt an aching jealousy that he should have attached himself so quickly to this stranger, but if it was helping them both to recover….
We went inside, but I did not stay long. Philippe’s sulky, noisy children arrived and immediately switched on the television full blast. The small room was oppressive, over-crowded and none too clean. I’d seen a banana skin, swept into a corner of the room, each time I’d been in the room. The same skin, I presumed since it was growing browner and drier. Thank heavens for antibiotics which have taken over from hygiene, I thought.
Mabiche and I found a sports shop in the vicinity and bought two track suits. For Robert, I chose a clear blue, the colour of his eyes. For Philippe, a deep burgundy. I could accept their “brotherhood” to a certain point only. I would not encourage the “twins” idea further. We took the parcels back to the Porter’s Lodge and Mabiche persuaded someone to deliver them to the ward.
A Bunch of Mimosa
A young woman put her head round the door of the hospital room.
“May I come in?” she asked the patient, who had been talking quietly with the old woman sitting, tense and awkward, by his bed.
With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris] Page 22
