‘And the quinoa cupcakes were disgusting, weren’t they?’
Annabel is glancing around at us. We all look at each other, then nod slowly.
‘Truly disgusting,’ admits Fiona, speaking for everyone.
‘Here, you need one of these.’ Reaching into her bag, Michelle pulls out a box of her favourite chocolate teacakes. ‘I was keeping them for later, but you look like you need them more than me.’ Tearing open the packet, she passes them over.
Annabel looks at them uncertainly, then takes one. We watch as she peels off the silver foil and takes a bite, waiting as she chews the biscuit base and chocolate-covered marshmallow, before raising her eyes to meet ours and breaking into a huge smile.
She has chocolate all over her teeth.
‘Take two,’ instructs Michelle.
I’m grateful for:
Our forties and beyond; because this time in our lives is one of change and reinvention, of endings and beginnings that aren’t all welcome or planned, but will end up taking us on new and different paths that will be as wonderful as they are scary.*
The realization we’re all in this together.
Fiona, who later tells me I’ve got nice arms and I can still wear a spaghetti top – which is very sweet of her, but like I said, her eyesight’s going.
Finding my tribe.
NOVEMBER
#aquestionoflifeanddeath
My Confessions
I’ve been bowled over by the reaction of my friends to my podcast. A few days have passed since they listened to the first episode at Fiona’s kitchen table, and they’ve downloaded the rest and been sending me lots of texts and messages and laughing face emojis saying how much they’re loving it, including some very funny ‘outfit of the day’ photos.
It also turns out I’m not the only one with a superpower. Fiona’s is ‘being a bloody mind reader’, Michelle’s is ‘being in two places at once’, and Holly’s is ‘being able to laugh in the face of it all’, which, if you ask me, is the best superpower of all.
Added to this, I just checked the number of people who listened to my last episode and something incredible has happened – it’s jumped up another twelve thousand! So now I’ve got nearly fifteen thousand listeners. Seriously. Pinch me.
But the best reaction of all has to be Cricket’s.
‘That’s wonderful, Nell, I’m so proud of you.’
I’ve gone over to help her pack for the move and we’re in the living room, surrounded by bubble wrap.
‘Thank you.’ Her praise means so much to me. ‘You know, it’s all because of you. I was listening to that podcast you recommended, and that’s how I got the idea to do my own.’
‘Well, it sounds marvellous!’ she says cheerfully, wrapping a vase. ‘Can I be an eighty-something fuck-up? Dead husband. No grandchildren. A social pariah at the bridge club.’
‘You can be an honorary member,’ I grin. ‘Why don’t you let me interview you?’
‘Fame at last!’ she beams. ‘I think it’s going to be one of those viruses.’
‘Viruses?’
‘Yes, where it goes around the world.’
I frown, wondering what on earth she’s going on about, then smile. ‘Oh, you mean going viral.’
She nods. ‘Yes, that too.’
I’m grateful for:
All my lovely new listeners, who make me realize more than ever that I’m not alone.
All the lovely feedback I’m getting.
Being in the top ten podcasts this week.
My interview with Cricket, which gets the most downloads ever, where she reveals her superpower is ‘being old and still getting excited about life’, which she attributes to saying yes to everything – except joining the Blue Rinse Brigade.
Bonfire Night
When it comes to 5 November, Guy Fawkes has a lot to answer for. And no, I’m not talking about his plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament; I’m talking about sentencing every pet owner in the country to a night of hell. If there’s one word that will strike fear into every pet and their owner, it’s ‘fireworks’.
Don’t get me wrong. I love fireworks as much as the next person. But where you see exploding rockets and cascading Catherine wheels, we pet owners see terrified animals trying to hide down the back of the sofa.
Or, in Arthur’s case, squashed underneath my desk, covered in a beach towel.
Edward is out with ‘some friends’ again, which I think is code for Date Three. Though I didn’t ask. When he texted to ask me if I’d be home to look after Arthur, I couldn’t exactly respond, ‘Yes, are you going to have sex?’ To be honest, I’m not sure if I want to know.
So instead I turn off all the lights and watch the fireworks from the upstairs window. Gazing across the rooftops and beyond at the glittering bursts of colour and shooting stars that leap and swirl across the inky sky, I feel like I’m witnessing a ballet. It really is magical. One of those things you want to share with someone.
Oh, FFS.
I grab my phone. At least I can share it on Instagram.
I spend the next few minutes taking lots of blurry photos of fireworks, before giving up and putting down my phone and just watching.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, alone in the darkness. But it feels like a really long time.
I’m grateful for:
Everyone else’s out-of-focus offerings, which teach me the valuable lesson that there is nothing more boring than looking at other people’s photos of fireworks.*
The Phone Call
Tuesday night. My phone rings. I’m in bed and I’ve just turned out the light. It’s probably Liza. Things are going great with Tia and she’ll be wanting to chat. But I’m too tired. I’ll call her back tomorrow. I lean over to turn it onto silent – and see that the number flashing up on the screen isn’t Liza’s; it’s Mum’s mobile.
It’s 11.04 p.m.
She never calls at this time. Worry flickers.
‘Mum?’
‘Nell—’ Hearing my voice, she bursts into tears. She’s hysterical.
‘Mum, are you OK? What’s happened?’ Fear has me by the throat.
‘It’s your Dad . . . there’s been a terrible car accident—’
I can hear urgent voices in the background.
‘Mum?’
‘The police are here, he’s been airlifted to hospital—’ Her voice is drowning under thick, heavy sobs. ‘They say it’s really serious . . .’
More voices. A sense of panic.
‘Mum, I can’t hear you—’
‘Nell, I’ve got to go . . . I’ll call you from the hospital.’
No Guarantees
Dad died in the air-ambulance on his way to hospital. He had a cardiac arrest, and his heart stopped for six minutes before they managed to shock him back to life. For six whole minutes, while I sat on my bed three hundred miles away, hugging my knees to my chest and desperately waiting for Mum to call back with more news, my dad was officially dead.
Thoughts don’t come more sobering than that.
I get the first train out of London. Dad’s been transferred to the General Infirmary for emergency life-saving surgery. Scans have revealed a catalogue of injuries: a fractured leg, broken ribs, a punctured lung, a ruptured spleen, internal bleeding and a serious head injury.
I tell Mum I’ll be there as soon as I can and that everything’s going to be OK. I say it as much for my benefit as hers, but I can feel her clinging to my reassurances, like a frightened child to their mother. I call my brother, but his phone is switched off and my messages go to voicemail. I try Nathalie. It’s the same. I keep trying them. The woman opposite me is giving me daggers. I realize I’m in the quiet carriage.
Vaguely I remember speaking to Edward, telling him what’s happened. He asks me if he can do anything; I say no, and start crying. The woman who’s been staring at me passes me a tissue and tries to console me. I notice people in the carriage are staring.
I don’t care. Fear does that
to you.
It feels like the longest train journey in the world. We pass through grey towns and bleak countryside, and I gaze absently upon trees that have lost their leaves, their skeleton arms reaching into the leaden skies. Rain splatters against the window. I see it all but take in nothing. My mind is elsewhere, flicking through a series of questions and fears, until it seems to freeze, like a computer when you’re running too many programmes.
Then finally I’m in a taxi from the station and I’m arriving at the hospital, rushing through the maze of corridors to find Mum. She’s sitting in the waiting area, a small hunched figure in a winter coat, twisting her hands in her lap, her eyes all red and puffy from crying. She jumps up when she sees me.
‘Oh, Nell,’ is all she says, over and over, as she clutches me tightly.
‘It’s going to be OK, Mum,’ I tell her firmly. ‘It’s going to be OK.’
I’ve never seen her this scared or helpless. She’s always been so stoical, but now she crumples beneath me. I hold her tight. I haven’t hugged Mum like this since I was a little girl, but now the roles are suddenly reversed and I know I’ve got to be the strong one. She needs me. I can’t fall apart.
Dad had been driving back home from the rugby club when the accident happened. It had been a friend’s birthday. ‘John, remember? He worked with him at the council.’ Mum was supposed to go but she had a bit of a cold. ‘I insisted he went without me. I told him to go,’ she explains through her sobs. ‘It’s all my fault. If he hadn’t gone, this would never have happened.’
It had been raining heavily. According to the police report, visibility was poor. A truck on the dual carriageway lost control and veered into the central reservation, causing a multi-car pile-up. Dad was trapped in the Land Rover and had to be cut free by fire fighters. An attending ambulance crew performed life-saving surgery at the side of the road to stem the bleeding from his internal injuries. Without that he would have died at the scene. Not everyone was so fortunate. There were several fatalities. Dad was one of the lucky ones.
A nurse ushers us into a small office where we meet Mr Reynolds, the trauma surgeon responsible for saving Dad’s life. He informs us that Dad’s just come out of theatre, that it went well, but he’s still in a critical condition. Mum starts crying again. I don’t know if it’s relief or fear or both. The surgeon explains about Dad’s injuries, showing us different scans and X-rays, informing us of what’s happened.
The impact of the collision caused internal haemorrhaging. He’s been given two blood transfusions and had surgery to repair his ruptured spleen and punctured lung. The Land Rover wasn’t fitted with airbags, resulting in the head injury, which was caused by the blunt trauma of hitting the windscreen. He’s been put into an induced coma, to reduce the swelling and minimize potentially irreversible damage to the brain. The fracture to his right leg, most likely caused by slamming on the brake, has been stabilized until he can be transferred to orthopaedics. He’ll later need an operation to insert a metal plate and pins. That’s if he makes it through the next few days.
It’s an awful lot to take in. Mr Reynolds is grave, but calm and assured. His language is matter of fact and littered with the kind of technical medical terms I’m used to hearing on TV; not in real life about my dad. He must have done this hundreds of times with hundreds of different frightened relatives who are pinning their whole worlds upon him. I listen and nod, feeling strangely detached as I struggle to absorb all this information. I think I’m still in shock.
Mum doesn’t speak but looks at me for reassurance. She seems in a daze, her body shrunken beneath her coat. As the surgeon talks about risks and complications, I squeeze her hand and ask every possible question I can think of.
When he’s finished, we all stand up and shake hands.
‘When can we see him?’ asks Mum, finally.
‘Soon. He’s being taken to ICU where he’ll be made comfortable. If you take a seat in the waiting room, I’ll get a nurse to attend to you.’
As we leave his office, I tell Mum I’m just going to the ladies’ and I’ll meet her in the waiting room. As soon as she’s disappeared through the fire doors, I quickly double back.
Mr Reynolds is still in his office when I knock on his door.
‘I needed to speak to you alone,’ I say, closing the door behind me. I pause, wondering how to put it, then just blurt it out. ‘Is he going to be all right? You can level with me.’
He’s sitting at his desk. I notice the everyday details: the blind at the window behind him that’s been pulled up unevenly; a pot plant (is it real or plastic? I can’t tell); the silver-framed photograph of two young children on his desk. He’s someone’s dad too.
‘Your father’s condition is critical but stable. The next forty-eight hours are crucial – we’ll know more then.’
‘Could he die?’
I say it out loud. The fear that’s been circulating in my head ever since Mum called me last night.
There’s a beat before he answers.
‘We do everything we can for a patient.’ He meets my gaze and I silently will him to tell me the truth. ‘But with injuries this severe, there are no guarantees.’
I’m grateful for:
He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.
Evie Rose
In hospital, time slows right down. Outside normal life moves at a frantic pace, hands on a clock jumping whole hours since you last checked, but within these walls, time sags and stalls. What can feel like an hour is only five minutes. It’s like in The Matrix, only not nearly as much fun.
Life as I once knew it ceases to exist. A million distractions shrink down to a waiting room lit with artificial light. It feels small and suffocating. A dismal canteen is my only reprieve from the agonizing wait.
We’re taken to see Dad in ICU for a brief few minutes. I think I’m prepared, but nothing prepares you for seeing someone you love hooked up to machines and monitors, their body battered and bruised. Dad’s always so larger than life, but he looks pale and still in his hospital gown. That strikes me the most. How still he is. How quiet. All we can hear is the rhythmical beeping and pumping of the various machines.
His body is attached to endless tubes and drains, and an oxygen mask covers his face. I look across at Mum. She’s already sitting at his bedside, holding his hand. I do the same, but it’s all taped up from the drip and he has clips on various fingers. I’m scared to touch him. To do something wrong. So instead I just sit beside him, watching his chest rising and falling, hearing Mum murmuring softly, swallowing down the lump that threatens in my throat.
Telling myself over and over that I’ve got to be strong, that he’s going to survive, that this isn’t really happening.
But it is.
Rich finally calls and we discover why he hasn’t been answering his phone. Nathalie went into labour last night, but their careful plans for a home birth were abandoned and she ended up being taken into hospital. Their daughter was finally born this afternoon, ‘eight pounds two ounces and just perfect’, but in the hurry he’d left his phone at home.
He borrowed Nathalie’s to call Mum and Dad at home to tell them the good news – they had a granddaughter! But there’d been no answer and he didn’t know their mobile numbers by heart. He’d thought nothing of it. It was only when he’d gone home to take a shower and retrieve his phone that he’d got all our messages.
‘I’ll come straight away,’ he’s saying now, still in shock from the news of Dad’s accident.
‘No, you stay with Nathalie and the baby,’ says Mum firmly. ‘They need you.’
‘But I’ve got to be there—’
‘There’s nothing you can do, love.’
I can’t hear what my brother is saying, and after a moment Mum passes me the phone. ‘He wants to speak to you.’
‘Sis. Tell me. What’s happening?’ he says urgently.
I swallow hard. ‘His injuries are serious,’ I say, parroting the doctor. ‘They’ve put him in
an induced coma. We’ve just got to wait.’
Silence.
‘Rich?’ I step a few paces away from Mum. ‘Rich, are you OK?’
He sniffs hard, his voice breaking. ‘Is he going to make it, sis?’
Big sister. Looking after her little brother. Just like always. I hesitate. He can’t be here. His priority is Nathalie and the new baby. He has to protect them, just like I’ve got to protect him. Just like I’ve always done.
‘Yeah,’ I say, pushing down my fears. Then firmer this time. ‘Yes, he’s going to make it.’
I’m grateful for:
Evie Rose Stevens, born 7 November at 5.10 p.m., 8lb 2oz.
Where there’s life, there’s hope.
Dark Night of the Soul
It’s late. Regular visiting hours finished ages ago but we’ve been allowed to stay for longer. ‘Special circumstances’, I think that’s what the nurse said. I can’t remember now. Things are beginning to blur, yet at the same time they’re intensified. Life has taken on a dreamlike quality.
We’ve been allowed into the patient recreational room. Mum is asleep in a chair but I’m wide awake. I look around at the dimly lit room, but it’s empty apart from the two of us. There’s a TV in the corner, but the volume is turned right down. It’s some old film. A black-and-white I don’t recognize. I lie back on the sofa and let my eyes rest on the screen. Anything to take my mind off the thoughts that are spiralling in my head.
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 31
