This threw everybody – most especially, Nurse Dowling, who looked at me wide-eyed, as if I had completely abandoned all reason. Which was very close to the truth.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked. I didn’t know the answer to that question – so all I said was, ‘Bad dream.’
‘But you were awake.’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘I fell asleep again.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely,’ I said, touching my very wet face and attempting to wipe away the remnants of all that crying. ‘Just a little nightmare.’
The unit sister arrived at my bedside just in time to hear that last comment. She was a formidable Afro-Caribbean woman in her early forties – and I could tell that she wasn’t buying a word of it.
‘Perhaps you need another sedative, Sally.’
‘I am completely fine,’ I said, my voice nervous. Because the last thing I wanted right now was a further trip into an opiated never-never. Which is why it was critical that I bring myself under control.
‘I’d like to believe that,’ the unit sister said, ‘but your chart shows that you’ve already had two such incidents. Which, I must tell you, is not at all unusual after a physically traumatic delivery. But it is a cause for concern. And if it persists …’
‘It won’t persist,’ I said, sounding very definitive.
‘Sally, I am not at all trying to threaten you. Rather, I just want to point out that you have a legitimate medical problem which we will treat if …’
‘Like I said – it was just a little nightmare. I promise it won’t happen again. I really, really do promise.’
A quick glance between the unit sister and Nurse Dowling.
The unit sister shrugged. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘we’ll forego medication right now. But if you have another incident …’
‘I won’t be having another incident.’
My voice had jumped an edgy octave or two. Another telling glance between the unit sister and Nurse Dowling. Defuse the situation, defuse it now.
‘But I would desperately like to see my son, Jack,’ I said, my voice back in reasonable territory.
‘That should be possible after Mr Hughes comes by on his rounds this morning.’
‘I have to wait until then?’
‘It’s just another hour or so …’
‘Oh come on …’ I said, my voice going loud again. When I saw another telling glance between the unit sister and Nurse Dowling, I knew that I should cut my losses and wait the hour.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I said, a little too rapidly. ‘You’re right, of course. I’ll wait until Mr Hughes shows up.’
‘Good,’ the unit sister said, looking me straight in the eye. ‘And you mustn’t worry too much about what’s going on right now. You’ve been through a great deal.’
She smiled and touched my arm, then left. Nurse Dowling said, ‘Anything else I can get you?’
‘If you could just hand me the phone, please.’
She brought it over to the bed, then left. I dialled home. I received no answer … which bothered me just a little, as it was only eight-thirty in the morning, and Tony was a notoriously late sleeper. Then I called his mobile and got him immediately. I was relieved to hear him in traffic.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m so damn sorry about …’
‘It’s all right, Sally,’ Tony said.
‘No – it’s not. What I said yesterday …’
‘Meant nothing.’
‘I was horrible.’
‘You were in shock. It happens.’
‘It still doesn’t excuse what I said about Jack …’
A telling pause. ‘So you like the name now?’
‘Yes, I do. And I like you too. More than I can say.’
‘Now there’s no need to go all soppy on me. What’s the latest word on our boy?’
‘I won’t know anything until Hughes does his rounds. When will you be in?’
‘Around tea-time.’
‘Tony …’
‘I have pages to get out …’
‘And you also have a deputy. Surely the editor was most sympathetic …’
‘Did you get his flowers?’
‘Yes – and a bouquet from Margaret too. You called her?’
‘Well, she is your best friend.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I also spoke with Sandy. Explained that it had been a complicated delivery, that you were a bit under the weather, and told her it was best if she didn’t ring you for a few days. Naturally, she’s phoned me three times since then to see how you’re doing.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘That you were making steady progress.’
Sandy being Sandy, I was certain that she didn’t believe a word of his reassurances – and was now frantically worried about my condition. She knew damn well that, if she couldn’t talk to me, something rather serious was going on. But I was grateful to Tony for keeping her at bay. Much as I adored my sister, I didn’t want her to hear how fragile I was right now.
‘That was the right thing to tell her,’ I said.
‘Listen, I have to run now,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll try to be in by early evening, all right?’
‘Fine,’ I said, even though I didn’t mean it – as I really wanted him at my bedside right now for some necessary emotional support.
But who in their right mind would want to be with me at the moment? I had turned into a crazy woman, who’d lost all sense of proportion, and spat bile every time she opened her mouth. No wonder Tony wanted to dodge me.
For the next hour, I sat and stared upwards at the ceiling. One thought kept obsessing my head: Jack, brain damaged? I couldn’t even conceive of what motherhood was going to be like if that was the case. How would we cope? What fathomless, inexhaustible hell would await us?
Mr Hughes arrived promptly at ten. He was accompanied by the unit sister. As always, he wore a beautifully cut pinstripe suit, a spread-collar pink shirt, and a black polka-dot tie. He deported himself like a Cardinal visiting a poor parish. He nodded hello, but said nothing until he had perused the notes hanging on the bedstead clipboard.
‘So, Mrs …’
He glanced back at the clipboard.
‘…Goodchild. Not the most pleasant few days I’d imagine?’
‘How is my son?’
Hughes cleared his throat. He hated being interrupted. And he showed his displeasure by staring down at the chart while speaking with me.
‘I’ve just been looking in on him at ICU. All vital signs are good. And I spoke to the attending paediatrician, Dr Reynolds. He told me that an EEG performed this morning indicated no neurological disturbance. But, of course, to make certain that everything is functioning properly, an MRI will be conducted around lunchtime today. He should have results by evening time – and I know he’ll want to see you then.’
‘Do you think that brain damage did occur?’
‘Mrs Goodchild … though I can fully understand your worry – what mother wouldn’t be worried under the circumstances? – I am simply not in a position to speculate about such matters. Because that is Dr Reynolds’s territory.’
‘But do you think that the EEG results … ?’
‘Yes, they do give one cause for optimism. Now, would you mind if I looked at Mr Kerr’s handiwork?’
The unit sister drew the curtains around my bed, and helped me raise my nightgown and lower my underwear. Then she pulled away the bandages. I hadn’t seen my wounds since the delivery, and they shocked me: a crisscrossing sequence of railroad tracks, bold in their delineation and barbaric in execution.
Though I was trying my best to stifle all emotion, I couldn’t help but emit a small sharp cry. Mr Hughes favoured me with an avuncular smile, and said, ‘I know it looks pretty grim right now – a real war wound – but once the stitches are removed, I promise you that your husband won’t have anything to complain about.’
I wanted to say
, ‘To hell with my husband. It’s me who’s going to have to live with the disfigurement.’ But I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t afford to deepen my problems.
‘Now I gather you’ve been having a bit of, uh, shall we say, emotional disquiet.’
‘Yes – but it’s over with.’
‘Even though you had to be sedated yesterday?’
‘But that was yesterday. I’m just fine now.’
The unit sister leaned over and whispered something in Hughes’s ear. He pursed his lips, then turned back to me and said, ‘According to the staff here, you had a bit of a turn this morning.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘You know, there’s absolutely no shame in going a little wonky after giving birth. Quite commonplace, actually, given that one’s hormones are just a little all over the place. And I do think that a course of anti-depressants …’
‘I need nothing, doctor – except to see my son.’
‘Yes, yes – I do understand. And I’m sure sister here can arrange to have you brought upstairs once we’re done. Oh – and you do know that you will be with us for at least another six to seven days. We want to make certain you’re right as rain before sending you out into the world again.’
He scribbled some notes on to my chart, spoke quickly to the unit sister, then turned back to me with a farewell nod.
‘Good day, Mrs Goodchild – and try not to worry.’
That’s easy for you to say, pal.
A half-hour later – after having my surgical dressings changed – I was up in Paediatric ICU. Once again, I followed the advice of that benevolent porter and I kept my eyes firmly focused on the linoleum as I was wheeled in. When I finally looked up, the sight of Jack made my eyes sting. Not that there was any change in his condition. He was still enveloped in medical tubes, still dwarfed by the plexiglas incubator. Only now I had a desperate need to hold him, to cradle him. Just as I had a despondent fear that I might just lose him. Or that he would have to go through life with a terrible mental disability. Suddenly, I knew that whatever happened to him – whatever horrors were revealed by the MRI – I’d handle it. Or, at least, I’d deal with it – the way you deal with life’s most unexpected, fiendish cards. But, oh God, how I didn’t want that to come to pass; how I’d do anything now to make certain he was going to be all right … and how I knew just how powerless I was to change anything now. What had happened happened. We were now nothing more than fortune’s fools – and hostages to whatever came our way.
I started to weep again. This time, however, I didn’t feel the undertow of emotional hollowness that had so characterized the past few days. This time, I simply wept for Jack – and for what might become of him.
The orderly kept his distance while I cried. But after a minute or so, he approached me with a box of Kleenex and said, ‘It might be best if we head back now.’
And he returned me to my room.
‘Good news,’ Nurse Dowling said after I was helped back into bed. ‘Mr Hughes says you can come off those nasty drips – so it looks like you’re tube free. First steps towards freedom, eh? How’s the little one doing?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said quietly.
‘I’m sure he’s going to be just fine,’ she said, her singsong platitudinous voice now sounding like fingernails on a blackboard. ‘Now what can I get you for lunch?’
But I refused all food, refused a rental television, refused the offer of a sponge bath. All I wanted was to be left alone – to lie in bed with the blankets pulled up to my chin, shutting out the cacophony of the world.
That’s how I passed my day – counting down the hours until Tony finally arrived and the paediatrician presented us with the empirical proof of our son’s condition. I was conscious, but purposely detached from everything around me. Or, at least, I thought it was a deliberate detachment on my part. But, at times, I really did feel as if an occupying power had taken up residence in my brain, encouraging me to push away the world and all its complexities.
Then it was six o’clock. Much to my surprise, Tony showed up exactly when he said he would, bearing a bouquet of flowers and a nervousness which I found immediately endearing.
‘Were you sleeping?’ he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and kissing my forehead.
‘A facsimile of sleep,’ I said, forcing myself to sit up.
‘How are you faring?’
‘Oh, you know – Day of the Living Dead.’
‘Any news from upstairs?’
I shook my head. And said, ‘You look tense.’
Tony just smiled a stiff smile and lapsed into silence. Because there was nothing to say until the paediatrician made his appearance. Or perhaps anything we did say would have sounded irrelevant and empty. Our shared anxiety was so palpable that saying nothing was the smartest option.
Fortunately, this silence only lasted a minute or so, as a new nurse came by and said that Dr Reynolds would like to see us in a consulting room by the MRI suite on the fifth floor. Tony and I exchanged a nervous glance. Requesting us to meet him in a private consulting room could only mean bad news.
Once again I was helped into a wheelchair. Only this time Tony pushed me. We reached the elevator. We travelled up three storeys. We headed down a long corridor. We passed the suite of rooms marked MRI and were escorted into a small consulting room, with nothing more than a desk, three chairs, and a light box for x-rays. The porter left us. Tony pulled over a chair next to my wheelchair and did something he’d not done before: he took my hand. Oh, we had held hands on occasion – by which I mean two or three times maximum. This was different. Tony was trying to be supportive – and, in doing so, he was letting me know just how scared he was.
After a moment, Dr Reynolds came in, carrying a folder and a large oversized manila envelope. He was a tall soft-spoken man in his late thirties. I tried to read his face – the way a person on trial tries to read the face of the foreman before the verdict was delivered. But he was giving nothing away.
‘Sorry to have kept you both …’ he said, opening the envelope, clipping the MRI film to the light box, and illuminating it. ‘How are you feeling, Ms Goodchild?’
‘Not bad,’ I said quietly.
‘Glad to hear it,’ he said, favouring me with a sympathetic smile that let it be known he was au fait with my recent follies.
‘How’s our son, Doctor?’ Tony asked.
‘Yes, I was just about to come to that. Now … this is a picture of your son’s brain,’ he said, pointing to the MRI film … which, to my untutored eye, looked like the cross-section of a mushroom. ‘And after consultation both with the paediatric neurologist and the radiologist, we’ve all reached the same conclusion: this is a perfectly normal infant brain. Which, in turn, means that, based on this MRI – and the recent EEG – we sense that there has been no brain damage.’
Tony squeezed my hand tightly, and didn’t seem to mind that it was a cold and clammy hand. It was only then that I realized I had my head bowed and my eyes tightly closed, like someone expecting a body blow. I opened them and asked, ‘You just said that you sense there’s been no brain damage. Doesn’t the MRI offer conclusive evidence?’
Another sympathetic smile from Reynolds.
‘The brain is a mysterious organism. And after a traumatic birth – in which there was initially a question about whether the brain was denied oxygen – you cannot be completely 100 per cent definitive that there was no damage. Having said that, however, all clinical evidence points to a positive outcome …’
‘So there is something to worry about,’ I said, getting agitated.
‘If I were you, I’d move forward optimistically.’
‘But you’re not me, Doctor. And because you’re more than hinting that our son has been brain damaged—’
Tony cut me off.
‘Sally, that is not what the doctor said.’
‘I heard what he said. And what he said is that there is a chance our son was denied oxygen to the brain and is
therefore …’
‘Ms Goodchild, please,’ Reynolds said, his voice calm and still commiserative. ‘Though I can fully appreciate your concerns, they are – with respect – somewhat overblown. As I said before, I really do think you have nothing to worry about.’
‘How can you say that … how… when you yourself admit that you can’t be 100 per cent certain that—’
Again, Tony intervened.
‘That’s enough, Sally.’
‘Don’t tell me—’
‘Enough!
His vehement tone silenced me. And I suddenly felt appalled – both at the illogicality of my rant, and at the irrational anger I had shown this very decent and patient doctor.
‘Doctor Reynolds, I am so sorry …’
He raised his hand.
‘There’s nothing to apologize about, Ms Goodchild. I do understand just how difficult things have been. And I’ll be back here tomorrow if you have any further questions.’
Then he wished us a good evening and left. As soon as he was out of the room, Tony looked at me for a very long time. Then he asked, ‘Would you mind telling me what the hell that was all about?’
I looked away. And said, ‘I don’t know.’
A Special Relationship Page 13
