by David Ellis
“No problem, Emma,” said her father. “Just try and be nice to them, please.”
Emma’s grandparents lived in the next village, so it only took a matter of minutes to get to their house. She knocked on the door expecting the worst and was surprised when she was greeted by two smiling, elderly faces, albeit dressed in their customary dark clothes.
“Come on in, Emma,” said her grandmother. “How nice of you to pay us a visit. You must be so busy in the hospital and with your new friend: Daniel, isn’t it?”
“Good to see both of you,” said Emma. “Yes, it’s very busy at the moment, but it’s wonderful being with Daniel. You’ll have to meet him.”
“Let’s have some tea,” said her grandfather, leading her into the front room where tea had been set out on the table. They sat down and Emma’s grandmother poured the tea.
Emma sipped at the tea, enjoying the rather unusual taste which she couldn’t exactly place.
“Grandma, is this some new herbal tea you’re trying?” asked Emma. “It’s quite unusual…”
Emma slumped in her chair. Her grandparents stopped smiling and went over to inspect her.
“It seems to have worked, Grandpa.”
“Alright, let’s get her on the floor so we can begin.”
The two of them struggled with Emma’s weight but managed to get on the floor so that her face was pointing towards the ceiling.
“Have you got everything we need?” asked her grandmother.
“Yes, crucifixes, scissors and bible.” said her grandfather, “And whatever you do, don’t let her look in your eyes.”
Emma gradually became aware of her surroundings and could see the ripples of the hideous artex ceiling above her. She then became aware of movement just behind her head and suddenly saw two wizened hands shaking crucifixes at her.
“And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out; it is better for you enter the kingdom of God with one eye, than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire,” they both recited together.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” shouted Emma, whilst directing the most withering glare at them she could muster given the unusual circumstances.
Their reaction of shock was instantaneous and they shrank back from her to cower in the corner of the room. At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Emma dashed to answer it.
“Thank god you’re here, Dad,” said Emma, “These two have just poisoned me with herbal tea and they were about to do something unpleasant with crucifixes and scissors.”
Her grandparents continued to cower in the corner and seemed to be muttering various passages from the bible.
“Thank you for the tea, but I never want to see you again. Do you understand that? And if you make any attempt to contact me, I’ll call the police. Oh, and one other thing: Matthew 7:5 – You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”
Emma left their house with her father, slamming the door behind them.
Emma arrived back at Daniel’s house later that evening, somewhat shaken by the events in her grandparents’ house.
“They may be religious bigots, Daniel,” said Emma, “but I can’t believe what they did to me. If Dad hadn’t arrived when I asked him to, they’d have probably gouged out my eyes.”
“Have you reported them to the police?” asked Daniel.
“What would I say? That I was enticed to my grandparents who drugged me and then planned to do GBH on me? I just don’t think they’d believe it.”
“Probably not, but why would they want to do that to you anyway?”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious that it’s because of my eyes. You know that my mother blamed me for causing her breakdown when I was a baby and they’re probably also blaming me for her death, although I’m sure that wasn’t the case.”
“Do you think they were doing this on their own?”
“I don’t know. Dr Ziegler did warn me that I might be in danger, but she never said anything about being assaulted by elderly grandparents. And the other weird thing is that I suddenly spouted something from the bible about planks in eyes without knowing how I came to know it in the first place.”
“You mean ‘You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.’”
“Yes, that’s the one. How come you know it?”
“Oh, it’s just the sort of thing that got drummed into me at school.” He held his hands out to Emma. “Come here, Emma, and let’s continue our therapy upstairs.”
October 2004
Following the near miss at her grandparents’ house, Emma remained on a state of high alert ready for something else untoward to happen. So her clinical work came as something of a relief, and she looked forward to the routine of arriving in her office just before 9:00 a.m. to check her e-mails and her diary for the day. This morning, she saw that she had a new ward patient booked in for assessment.
John was a man in his late 30s who used to work as a chef and then developed acute pancreatitis after having an alcohol problem on the job. He’d subsequently lost his job and his alcohol problem spiralled out of control. He managed to stop drinking, but the damage to his pancreas remained and he was being regularly readmitted with excruciating chronic pancreatitis. His attempts to get adequate pain relief were usually thwarted by an insensitive GP and A&E departments who simply thought he was after morphine. Now back on a surgical ward, the team were trying to find a longer-term solution and were considering a nerve plexus block.
Emma was generally feeling more confident about applying her ability and no longer needed the protection of sunglasses. She thought that John might be a good candidate for her unorthodox approach at pain management. After reading through the notes, she went to find her patient and found him attached to a morphine pump which seemed to be hardly touching the pain. His face was as white as a sheet.
“Hello, John,” said Emma. “I’m Dr Emma Jones, a pain physician, and I’ve been asked to see you to try and help with your pain.”
“Hi, Dr Jones,” said John, “but if you can do anything about it you’ll be a miracle worker. I think they’re getting really fed up with me, and to be honest, I’m getting fed up with myself.”
“I heard you’ve taken a few overdoses of paracetamol.”
“Yes, but that’s more to cope with the pain when I can’t get any help from anyone.”
“You’re quite stuck really, aren’t you?”
“That’s me in a nutshell, doctor.” He grimaced in a sudden spasm of pain.
“That was bad, was it?”
“Yes, it’s agony.”
“Okay, John. What I want to try is a sort of visualisation therapy, except it’s me that does the visualisation of your pain and I’m going to use that image to help dampen down the pain. All it involves is me looking directly into your eyes, but you need to keep your eyes wide open the whole time. Do you understand?”
“Okay, I’ll try anything.”
Emma moved her chair so that she was facing her patient and could look directly into his eyes. Starting from about four feet away, she concentrated her gaze, trying to let herself absorb his feelings and emotions. Even at that distance, she was struck by the intensity of the pain and despair she experienced and this increased more and more as she got closer. Once she was about two feet away, she started to imagine her prefrontal, insula and cingulate activating as she had seen on the functional MRI. Then as soon as she felt she’d reached the peak intensity, she imagined cutting off the activation and then projecting that down John’s optic nerve into his brain. And just at the moment when she hit that mental switch, she saw John momentarily shudder and something seemed to lift from his face.
“Wow,” he said, “the pain has totally gone. I can’t believe it. What did you do?”
“As I said, John, I took your pain and then essentially imagined it away and gave your brai
n the same instruction.”
“How long will the effect last?”
“That I can’t tell, John. What we need to do now if wean you off the morphine and I’ll be back tomorrow to do a repeat of the treatment and also to teach you how to do the pain visualisation for yourself. Is that okay?”
“That’s great, doctor. I’m really grateful.”
December 2004
Two weeks on the island of Koh Samui towards the end of 2005 proved to be a perfect way of enjoying their newly rediscovered relationship, with days of walking on the white sands, swimming in the turquoise sea, candlelit dinners and unburdened lovemaking. The only slight fly in the ointment was the food poisoning they both got, which almost scuppered their flight back.
Once home, both settled back into their routines: Daniel with his thriving therapy business and Emma with her pain medicine. And the ghosts of her past seemed to have decided to stay away for good.
About a month later, Emma noticed a small lump on Daniel’s neck when they were in the shower together. He also seemed to have lost weight although she’d put this down to the lingering effects of the food poisoning or him exercising excessively.
“Daniel, you’ve lost quite a lot of weight. Have you been going to the gym too much?
“Not really. In fact, probably less than usual as I’ve been feeling too tired since the holiday.”
“And I thought holidays were meant to be invigorating!”
“I guess I’m the exception to the rule.”
“Have you noticed this lump before?” Emma pointed at his neck.
“Perhaps six months ago, but I didn’t think much of it. I think it’s got a bit bigger since then, though.”
“Darling, I think we ought to get you checked out just to make sure it’s nothing. Will you make an appointment with your GP?”
“Sure thing. I’ll do that today.”
Sitting in the GP’s waiting room, with its cheap, orange plastic chairs and well-thumbed copies of ‘Hello!’, ‘Now’ and other examples of gaudy titillation, Emma was struck by the thought that it was a waiting room for the one journey we all have to take: you check-in as a baby, join the security queue for your childhood, indulge in the excesses of the duty free shop as an adolescent, embark for your flight as an adult - stopping off to pick up illnesses and medication on the way - and then disembark at death.
Her morbid reverie was interrupted by the sight of Daniel emerging from the GP’s consulting room. He was carrying some sort of form and a specimen pot.
“How did it go, darling?”
“Well, he asked me a few questions – particularly about the food poisoning – and examined me. He didn’t seem too concerned about the lump, which is good. He thinks it’s probably just something I picked up on holiday. He’s asked me to drop off a specimen of poo and he’s given me this form to get some blood test done.”
“Okay, that sounds good. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”
Daniel attended the phlebotomy clinic the next day and Emma thought that she might as well check for the results herself on the hospital’s PAS system. She entered Daniel’s first and second names and his date of birth and saw his details come up on the screen. She scrolled down to haematology and clicked return. She found it difficult to focus on the figures and was wondering whether she’d simply misread the results. Unfortunately, there was no mistaking that his haemoglobin, white cell count and platelets were all well below the normal range.
Christ, she thought, this can’t be happening; she just didn’t believe it.
A week later, Emma found herself in a different waiting room, this time in the outpatients department of her own hospital, which was a strange experience. From time to time, she’d see people she knew and they’d wave to her in acknowledgement, almost apologetically, as if thinking “I wonder why she’s there?”
John Morgan, the consultant haematologist, was someone that Emma knew by name, if not by sight, and she’d checked his credentials on the hospital’s website, which gave her some reassurance that Daniel was in good hands.
A young girl a few seats away had been staring at Emma for some time and turned to her mother and said: “Why’s that lady sad, Mummy?”
“What makes you think she’s sad, dear?” asked the mother.
“Her eyes look so sad, Mummy,” said the child.
Emma smiled at both of them and said: “I’m fine really.” She wondered whether this little girl was another evil eye in the making and imagined an army of evil eyes ready to wage war on the suffering that Daniel was about to go through.
The door to the consulting room opened and Dr Morgan beckoned at her to join him and Daniel.
She almost failed to recognise Daniel when she went into the consulting room, as he seemed to have sunk into the chair, with his head bent over and almost touching his knees. She bent down and held his hand. He looked up with his soft brown eyes and she saw despair, sadness and fear.
Emma sat down on the chair that Dr Morgan offered her, holding Daniel’s hand all the while, feeling that she couldn’t break that contact.
“You’ve told Daniel, then?” asked Emma.
“Yes, Emma, I’m afraid it's bad news. We think that Daniel has lymphoma.”
Emma nodded and let that sink in, although she’d been virtually certain of the diagnosis even before they’d arrived in outpatients. But hearing the word ‘lymphoma’ spoken out loud in the clinical sterility of the consulting room felt like an icy knife plunging into her soul.
January 2005
What followed was a seemingly endless round of more tests, more consultants and more discussion and she could see Daniel visibly disappearing before her eyes.
The final diagnosis was of an aggressive non-Hodgkin lymphoma, which is probably the worst sort to get if you’re unlucky enough to get lymphoma. Chemotherapy was recommended and the day was set for him to be admitted to start the course of treatment.
The chemotherapy being proposed was aggressive and extremely demanding for the patient. In the case of Daniel’s treatment, the plan was two days of multiple cytotoxic drugs, followed by five days at home, and then weekly readmission for a period of three months.
Emma made a point of visiting the ward when the ward round was on to check on his progress when he was about two-thirds of the way through the course. The team discussion was efficient and precise in the way medical teams have to be when confronting difficult treatment decisions for aggressive cancers. In his favour was his age, but going against him was the high grade of the cancer, his anaemia, multiple lymph nodes being involved, a raised level of a certain enzyme in his bloodstream and his increasing incapacity. Although Daniel came near to terminating the chemotherapy prematurely, he stuck with it to the bitter end.
So, just over three months after the cancer was diagnosed, Daniel came home. Emma took time off work to care for him. One morning, as she was shaving him, he looked at her and said: “Emma, will you marry me.”
“My dearest, darling Daniel, of course I will.”
April 2005
It had been difficult making all the arrangements in the short time left, but their wedding day finally arrived and it coincided with what felt like the first day of spring. Emma looked out of their bedroom window across to where they would be getting wedded in a few hours’ time: an unassuming little church that was almost next door.
Both decided to keep the guest list small, but they agreed that would be two special places reserved right at the front: one for the late Georgina Brown and one for Sandra, Emma’s secretary. Emma struggled briefly with the question of inviting her grandparents but Daniel convinced her that forgiveness is the best option in situations like this. And she couldn’t disagree with her therapist.
As neither of them was at all religious, they chose an order of service with the barest minimum of anything that mentioned deities or the like. Ironically, it was the fact that she was baptised that seems to have swayed the vicar in agreeing to the service. Daniel had also
chosen a quartet of musicians in place of anything rather more ecclesiastical.
And despite Emma’s protestations about a religious service, she looked the perfect bride when she came up the aisle on the arms of her father, who, even in his advanced years, exuded a pride that illuminated the entire church.
Daniel did his best to look tall and handsome, but even a well-cut morning suit couldn’t disguise his weight loss and utter exhaustion. But, as Emma noticed when she turned to him during their vows, his eyes were as soft and brown as ever.
The reception was low-key and held at a local French restaurant, which was a sister establishment to ‘The Elizabeth’, the restaurant in Oxford where Emma almost had her final meal a few years’ ago. This time she had a dessert. She noticed that Daniel picked at his food and only just had enough energy to pick up his glass of champagne for the toast. Emma’s father had arranged for the extravagance of a Rolls Royce to whisk them off from the reception to a five star country house hotel.
They went to bed early and lay gazing into each other’s eyes, their hands touching and caressing just as if it was their first night together. There was no orgasmic rush this time; just a gentle entwining of their emotions which went far beyond the physicality of sex. And as they turned to go to sleep, Daniel said: “You know, Emma, you should patent it.”
April 2005, two weeks later
Sadly, Daniel went downhill rapidly after their wedding and brief honeymoon. Getting out of bed became an ordeal that consumed his energy for the rest of the day, so reluctantly he agreed to the indignity of a potty. He ate the barest minimum of food despite Emma trying to tempt him with the best that local takeaways had to offer and her own cooking could achieve. Nights, as ever, were spent with limbs entwined and fingers touching, but even Emma’s very special sort of lovemaking was too taxing for him.
