We see a body, lying face down on the earth, carefully hidden between three leylandii trees. The body is not wearing a coat. It has dark brown corduroy trousers, a grubby white shirt, a caramel jersey and a cashmere Burberry scarf. I recognise the scarf; I gave it to Michael on our tenth anniversary. The body is groaning and breathing but it isn’t speaking or making any sense. Emma crouches down next to it and calls an ambulance: possibly unconscious but definitely breathing. Conceivably an overdose. The man is – she looks at me for reassurance – fifty. He has early onset dementia. Hearing these three words never gets any better.
Chapter 21
Found
Whilst we are in the ambulance, I telephone my mother. The word “found” is repeated to the others, all of whom have regrouped in our mews house. They offer to drive up this evening but I say it’s too late now; it’s almost dark. Get a good night’s sleep and come up tomorrow, with the twins. And please bring me my washbag and a change of clothes. And some for Michael too. I’ve got to be optimistic that he will come out alive. Olivia and Eddie are desperate with worry. My parents are overwrought. This is not how they imagined their retirement. They all demand details but I can’t elaborate. We are in the ambulance. Emma is following in her car. She won’t take “no” for an answer, even though I told her I could manage. Besides, Rupert is out with work colleagues so he won’t miss her. The Royal Stoke University Hospital is part of the larger group called the University Hospitals of the North Midlands. It isn’t far. Our flashing blue lights are vanquished by the sheer velocity of the helicopter that lands precisely on its helipad. I wonder whether both patients will survive the night.
The ambulance enters the hospital via the Lower Ground Floor, adjacent to the main entrance of the building. Michael is rapidly treated from every angle. The speed at which the doctors, nurses and paramedics work is synonymous with the changeover of tyres at the Grand Prix. It is remarkable. Emma turns up, looking frantic, and says she will book us rooms at a local hotel. Anything to help. I can’t thank her enough. I am so hysterical that I forget how tired I am. I try following Michael and his stretcher into the theatre but I’m stopped by the doors which are key-padded like the ones in the care home. I am instructed to wait in the hospital’s canteen. Buy a coffee. Read a newspaper. I have so much adrenalin pumping round my body that I am not sure how to jettison it. A coffee is the last drink I want or need. I find a payphone, as I’m worried that my mobile won’t last more than a few minutes, and phone home again; this time, I speak to my father, Henry. He repeats the phrase: death is not always the worst option. Sophie, think of all the aggravation you will save, not to mention the money. He is thinking of me, of course. I say there are other options: an in-house carer, day centres, residential homes and respite care. He interjects: For you or for him? Have you looked in the mirror lately? How can you stay in my job? What about the twins? At this rate, they won’t have either of their parents by their twenty-first birthday. I can’t pretend that my husband’s untimely death doesn’t cross my mind; it might be easier for him and for me. But I don’t allow myself to entertain these distressing thoughts for more than a minute. This is one miserable year out of a wealth of happy ones. I need to maintain a sense of perspective.
I can’t remain on the phone because the cord doesn’t stretch far enough for me to sit down. The adrenalin dump has worn off. I am feeling weak and wobbly. There’s one spare chair at a table already occupied by a family. No one speaks. I’m too exhausted to be polite so I don’t say anything either. I look at my mobile instead. I send Emma another text and she replies, sending me the name of the hotel she has found us along with the room numbers: 44 and 45. I wander down to the A & E reception; it’s horribly busy with inebriated people who have been out on the town. There’s an array of superficial injuries ranging from bloody noses to swollen ankles. No one in this room is going to die today.
Michael is immediately taken to surgery. The doctors suspect him of overdosing on aspirin and beer. His breath smells and he is unconscious but definitely breathing, albeit rapidly and erratically. I still can’t gauge how he managed to get to Stoke-on-Trent. I have obviously underestimated him. I ask one of the nurses if I can see him but they firmly suggest that I wait until tomorrow. In fact, it’s not a suggestion. Michael is having a “gastric lavage” – that’s having your stomach pumped to you and me. It is pretty unusual these days, apparently. He is still unconscious; just as well, otherwise I don’t see how they would have successfully intubated him. A senior nurse takes it upon herself to explain this unpleasant procedure as if I were about to sit my GCSE in the subject. Michael will be placed on his left side, with his head lowered. A plastic tube, that is lubricated, will be inserted through the nose or mouth into the stomach. Once the tube is correctly in place, the suction procedure begins; the stomach is literally washed out with warm water until the fluids are clear. I assume that he will feel groggy and uncomfortable after this procedure. He may also wake up angry and resentful. After all, this was probably his last chance to determine his future without intervention from others. I have taken away his independence; even the decision to take his own life. I want to understand more. I need to understand more. I feel desperately sad.
Suicide attempts invite a whole raft of visitors such as social workers; psychiatrists, counsellors, psychotherapists and mental health workers, not to mention the doctors. Many years ago, one of my pupils tried to commit suicide with a friend in the school lavatories – they had a pact – so I am already familiar with the aftermath but only when it has successfully failed. Once I realise that there is nothing more I can do, or am permitted to do, and that the doctors and nurses won’t let me slump into a chair next to Michael, I can go to the hotel without a guilty conscience. It’s nothing fancy. Emma has found us two small doubles at the Travelodge; it’s only about two miles away. And it has a car park so she doesn’t have to pay the exorbitant Pay and Display charges at the hospital.
We have rooms opposite each other. They’re tastefully furnished and clean. I thank her again, and apologise for ruining her weekend. She won’t hear another word of it. She has proved to be a true friend. I run a bath, even though I had one this morning, and leave the television on for company. I don’t have a radio here and haven’t worked out how to use the one embedded in the headboard. I don’t have a nightie or a change of clothes with me – I didn’t really plan to stay the night – so I drape everything neatly over the desk chair and try out the bed. It is soft and springy. I lie between the well-ironed sheets and imagine how many thousands of people have slept here before me; the very thought fills me with horror, but much to my surprise, I sleep.
In the morning, we eat a light breakfast in the small modern dining room. It’s a buffet but the choice is limited to toast, Cornflakes, Bran Flakes and Special K with berries. There are some yoghurts as well. I opt for the Cornflakes. Emma has toast. We both drinks copious amounts of tea. I tell Emma that as my family will be here soon, she doesn’t have to stay. It’s not that I am ungrateful. I am so indebted. But I can’t return the favour. Not for another eight years or so. She finally gives in graciously and drops me back at the hospital before driving on to London. I realise afterwards that she has paid the hotel bill.
I report to the reception. I’m sent up to Level 2 where I find Michael conscious and awake though silent apart from his laboured breathing. I am not particularly squeamish but seeing him attached to so many tubes and drips is disconcerting. The Glaswegian consultant, Mrs Angela Shaw, is just about to check on him (she liaises with the Junior Doctor who is by his bed and reading the charts). His heart rate is a little high, as is his blood pressure, but that aside, he has been lucky. He has escaped kidney damage and the harm to his liver is marginal. He will have an MRI scan at some point this week. And no, he can’t have that in London. He’s her patient now. I hand the consultant a copy of the Herbert Protocol form, since I have spares in my handbag, but she only gives it a curso
ry glance. She is fully aware of Michael’s illness; she has accessed his records. Everyone has.
As I wait in the wings, two cheerful nurses, most probably at the beginning of their long shift, attempt to give Michael a bed bath. He resists their good intentions by shoving the sponge to one side and kicking his legs beneath the sheets. I suppose this is a good sign as he is back to his old-new grumpy self. Either way, it is preferable to his comatose state. His speech is inaudible but it’s obvious to all of us that he has not given his consent for this. Michael is a proud man. He has never much liked being prodded and poked by anyone other than me. Mrs Shaw, who can’t be more than forty-five, instructs the nurse to ignore the patient’s objections; this is a routine wash and it is “absolutely necessary” if infections are to be avoided. Her accent is clipped and harsh. Everything sounds like an order. An intravenous drip is reattached by the Junior doctor and the catheter is changed by the senior nurse. I am glad that Michael is barely aware of this as I know how much he would hate the indignity.
As predicted, a psychiatrist arrives to establish Michael’s state of mind. I think it’s a little too soon as his throat must be sore and I’m sure he’s feeling groggy but what do I know? He has barely spoken a word all morning. I wonder if the doctors are considering sectioning him under the Mental Health Act. The psychiatrist has a sympathetic bedside manner; is relaxed but professional; methodical but sympathetic. He has snowy white hair with a parting almost carved into his sculp. His line of questioning is not altogether different from our GP’s only this time, they’re predisposed towards his mental health. After establishing Michael’s limited cognitive abilities, Mr Jackson-Hale asks his new patient to sit up in bed. The nurse presses a button to enable this to happen. He looks less like an invalid and more like himself now though he could do with a haircut and a shave. He is unkempt and unclean, despite the nurse’s efforts. The backless surgical gown does nothing for him. Besides, it hasn’t been changed since the “gastric lavage” as there are spots and stains on both sides.
Mr Jackson-Hale tilts his head to the side, and looks Michael straight in the eyes. He speaks to him directly, as if he is all there. Do you feel that your life is worth living? Do you want to escape from your life? If you could do anything, what would it be? He pauses between each question and repeats them as often as necessary. He is extraordinarily persistent. The first two questions are clearly focused on his mental health but I don’t anticipate Michael’s answer to the third one: he wants to be an astronaut. I’m confused now but for a brief moment, especially after he asks for a glass of Ribena, I realise what has happened. I fail to see how Michael could be relatively normal one month and totally disorientated in the next. I wonder whether his medication should be reviewed. The questions start to come thick and fast. Michael cannot cope with the pace or the content. It is cruel and humiliating though it is not designed to be either. Mr Jackson-Hale asks him the season; the month of the year; the name of our prime minister before Boris Johnson. He cannot answer any of these. Finally, he is asked how old he is; he doesn’t know. But it’s worse than that. He is looking forward to casting his first vote. I know that Michael can be quite lucid – despite his dementia – and wonder how much damage the drugs are doing to his demented brain.
The doctors consult with each other, in that conspiratorial way that they do, and smile politely at me. I tell them that the whole entourage (my family) are descending on the hospital in an hour or two, so if there are any more tests, could they do them now? They look at me with incredulity. A young nurse pads over to his bedside and takes Michael’s blood pressure. He winces when the armband is tightened and breathes a sigh of relief when it’s loosened. He is too shattered to speak anymore. I expect his throat is sore and ask the nurse whether she could give him something soothing for it. I can buy him some throat sweets from the pharmacy. I thank her for this advice. She looks down at the bag of urine attached to the catheter and changes it without further comment.
I switch on my mobile; it immediately vibrates and uploads the messages: my family have arrived and they are waiting for me in the same café that I was in last night. We are all a little fraught. Olivia and Eddie want to go straight to the ward. I try to prepare them but nothing I say will do that. We can’t all enter the ward together; it wouldn’t be fair on the other patients. There are only three of them. They’re all men, even though the ward is sign-posted as “mixed”. Sheila, Henry and I wait behind the door, and just peer through its long glass panel. The twins descend on their father like falling petals: all kisses and hugs. He acknowledges them by nodding but he looks bewildered by their incessant talking. I can see Eddie’s face from where I am standing; he’s so like his father used to be. I just hope the condition is not hereditary. We still haven’t found out.
Olivia and Eddie sit patiently by the bed, holding their father’s large hands in theirs. He doesn’t resist their attention the way he did the nurse’s but he doesn’t reciprocate either. I wonder if he knows who they are. They stay with their father for at least half an hour. They would have stayed all morning had the nurse not intervened. They throw themselves into my arms, just as they did when they were half my size, and I repeat what the nurses said to me earlier: there will be good days and bad days; this was the latter. Things will improve. I’m about to say that they can’t get worse but I know that this isn’t true. I still can’t establish how Michael managed to make his way to Stoke-on-Trent without any assistance. The doctors advise us that childhood memories are the last to go.
We end the conversation graciously, thanking all the staff for their valiant efforts. My parents, the twins and I take an Uber to the Travelodge and decide that we need to have the conversation that no one wants to hear.
Chapter 22
The Conversation
We leave the hospital with mixed feelings. Michael, though a little thinner, looks surprisingly well. He has received a professional shave, haircut and had his first proper bath for days. Superficially, the children have their father back. I appear to have my husband back. He is almost attractive again. We gather our little bags and sign all the relevant forms so that he can be formally discharged into my care; this is only the beginning though. We have a series of appointments to attend back in London. And we also need to have a conversation about the future.
My parents have agreed to spend two nights in London so that I can return to work until we find a solution. Michael, the twins and I travel from Stoke-on-Trent by train; my parents drive straight to the Premier Inn, Belsize Park. It has a car park but it is not owned by the hotel so they have to pay an additional charge for the privilege. The hotel is a five-minute walk from our house and it has its own restaurant; it’s near the shops and plenty of local coffee shops in addition to an Everyman cinema. It if were not for Michael, they could almost make a minibreak out of their stay.
By 2 pm we are home and Michael’s good humour has worn off. He is attempting to make himself a cup of tea. I watch him fill up the kettle; I think, this is all right. He can do this. The procedure must be embedded in his long-term memory. But he has forgotten where we keep the mugs – even though they have always been in the same cupboard above the dishwasher – he takes out a tumbler instead. The kettle is boiled and the water is poured into the glass; I wonder if it will crack. He has forgotten about the teabag. I take a moment to decide whether to intervene. At school, we occasionally use the pose, pause, pounce and bounce strategy. I try this out on Michael. Would you like to use your favourite mug? (The Keep Calm & Carry On one) – this is the pose: the difficult question. I am not being patronising. I know this is tough for Michael. I give him approximately ten seconds to respond; this is the pause. I have had to re-educate myself not to answer my pupils’ questions before they have a chance of so doing. The ten seconds are up: no response. He is thinking. It is time for the “pounce”; this is when the teacher insists on no hands going up; it’s time to pick on someone. I choose my husband. I decide
to help him. I take out two teabags and two mugs, thinking erroneously that we might sit down together and talk.
The frontotemporal dementia does the “bounce”. It hurls the glass of boiling water at my feet; it smashes into smithereens. Droplets of what feels like oil splatter into my face. I scream with the shock and excruciating pain. I throw water over my face but it is still agonising; the scorching water fees like acid. The pain is all consuming. My response is desperate. I tell him that he can go into a care home. It is not too soon. Our marriage is definitely over. Michael is not remotely remorseful. Instead, he stomps off in a huff, telling me that he doesn’t understand why he is here or why he is no longer a carpenter. I don’t laugh. This time, I report the incident to Social Services. I need their help.
I berate myself for sounding off; it was cruel and unkind. I find a tea towel and run it under the cold tap. I press it against my blistered skin and soothe the pain. I apologise. He apologises. I press my scorched face into his cotton shirt and weep for what we have lost: our future together.
Imprisoned by Love Page 15
