Happy Anniversary Darling, Page 2
Clare Tanner
I repulse it.)
My in-laws have arrived and I clutch them as a drowning man holds a rock. They are solid and strong, and I have never been so pleased to see them. We prepare to go back to the hospital to see my husband. My mother-in-law puts on a new dress and her favourite brooch. I want to howl, but I tell her gently that her son is in a coma, and will not notice. She says it doesn't matter. It will make her feel better to wear it. I stay in my tracksuit. I will change when he is better. At the hospital, I marvel at her ability to chat to her son, this person who isn't there. She sees his presence. I see the tubes and his absence. Not for the first time, I realise that she is a stronger person than I. I need him, to get through this, and he isn't there.
But I am good at focussing on the medical issues. They all marvel at my interest, my recall of his complicated medical history, and my ability to stay calm, to be "brave." It is merely my way of latching on to something other than the reality of the situation. I feel that if I do everything I can to help them with their understanding of his individual needs, he has a better chance of survival.
Day 5/6
Him
Fight. Struggle. Big red ball. Fight it. Beat it. Get back.
Her
My husband has now been transferred, with a full medical team in attendance, to a larger hospital. His coma has become quieter. He seems even more absent. Is anything happening in there at all? (We learn later that he had given one large, rugby-playing doctor a black eye as he struggled to sedate him.)
I spend my time at the hospital, or looking after the children, or phoning friends and family to provide updates. Somehow this helps me to maintain my equilibrium. Denial is my best defence. In one surreal incident, we play 'ring a ring of roses' with the toddler, unconscious of the irony of the derivation of this nursery rhyme, the bubonic plague, when we are dealing with our own deadly disease.
I have to keep busy. It is the only way to block the thoughts from my mind. I am scrubbing the kitchen floor late at night, as if this act of domesticity will improve his chances of survival.
Everyone is being so kind to me. I am touched, but don't quite understand it. His family are all suffering too. It is only when I close our bedroom door and see the empty bed that I catch a glimpse of a possible future. I chase it from my mind, afraid that negative thoughts will produce a negative reality. That night I lie in bed with the children either side of me. I hope that they are too young to sense my fear and anguish. They sleep. I don't. At 2.30am the phone rings and a nurse from the hospital informs me that my husband has deteriorated. The infection is spreading to his major organs and he is being moved to Intensive Care. She tells me that I should not come into the hospital, but should stay at home. I take the call calmly, and find everyone on the landing, waiting to hear the news. My teeth begin to chatter, as if a minor earthquake is taking place. I shake uncontrollably and break down. I feel terrible that I have lost control like this. They will think that he has died, and I cannot get the words out to tell them that it isn't so. I recognise that I am in physical shock, but can do nothing to stop it. It is a full hour before the symptoms subside and I feel such a fool. I have upset everyone, and it has achieved nothing.
Day/Night 7
Him
Fight. Don't go. Not ready to go. Stay here. They need me.
Her
Some sort of equilibrium has been established. He is still in a coma, but he hasn't died. We take his brother and sister-in-law to see him. I feel so sad for them. I have had time to become used to his altered state, but how terrible it must be for his brother to see him like this, and to feel the need to be strong, to be a man. At least women are allowed to cry.
That night, I cannot sleep. I have had no rest for several nights now. I am wide awake at 4am and something makes me phone the hospital. The night nurse tells me that he has asked for a glass of water. She seems surprised that this news produces such a volcanic response. I feel as if the Berlin Wall has come down again.
Day 8
Him
Bright lights. Hell of a headache. Feel a little tired. Where am I? I seem to be in hospital. I ask a nurse what has happened. Apparently, I have had a little infection in my brain. How long have I been here? Several days? I need my diary. I must have missed meetings. Please get my wife to bring my diary in. And a dressing gown. I need to get back to work. Oh, and, while you are here, please take the catheter out. I'm better now. I need to get back to normal.
Her
Waves of relief and adrenalin hit me. He is awake. I have spoken to him. He sounds like his normal self. I wash my hair, put a dress on, apply some make-up. There is some point to it all now. We visit him in hospital. He is grinning. What a story this is. He takes the dressing gown, grabs the diary and gives me instructions about various meetings. I have to tell him that everything is in hand. His colleagues have taken on his workload. The cogs in the machine have still turned while he has been asleep.
Day 9/10
Him
The consultant comes to speak to me. "You are a very lucky man. You were closer to death than life, you know," he says.
I like that. I beat the odds. Having a mathematical turn of mind, I like to know what the chances are, and I like to beat them.
I have to get home. My parents come to visit me and I discharge myself. We arrive on the doorstep at home. It is great to be back.
Her
I never saw the consultant. I know that I have him to thank for my husband's survival, but my vote of thanks goes to the nurses, who were there for him twenty-four hours a day, never leaving the room, never giving up on him, checking him every fifteen minutes for the four days when he was hovering between life and death. They are the unsung heroes for me.
I answer the doorbell at home, while my in-laws are at the hospital, and find my husband, wearing only his dressing gown and a broad grin. I am delighted to see him, but wonder how we will cope. He was supposed to convalesce for another two weeks before he came home.
The next few weeks
Him
This is tougher than I thought. I have no physical scars, so why am I so exhausted and low? I am banished to our room for rest, while the life of the house continues downstairs. I am bored and miserable. I can't wait to get back to work.
Her
This is tougher than I thought. I am so relieved that he is getting better, but how can I cope with everything? It is harder now than while he was critically ill. It is a supreme challenge to get to the end of every day. I would kill for a couple of hours of rest. I had a phone call from the Meningitis Trust, offering me counselling, but how could I achieve that, with a sick husband, toddler, baby and dog to look after? I feel as if one tiny straw would fracture the camel's back for good.
After Christmas
Him
Back to work. Back to normal. Always look forward, never back. I want to move house. This house is bad luck. No time to waste.
Her
Oh God!
Twenty years later, on the Orient Express
Him
This is good. A few days out of a busy life. Where can we go next?
I smile at my wife as we sip a perfect glass of wine in the dining car, the outskirts of Paris passing in a blur through the window.
"Happy Anniversary, darling."
Her
I smile back, enigmatically. "Happy Anniversary, darling. Thank you."
Thank you for being here. Thank you for fighting, when it mattered most.
I look forward, too, but I cannot stop myself from glancing backwards, and every day I count my blessings that you are still with me.
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My in-laws have arrived and I clutch them as a drowning man holds a rock. They are solid and strong, and I have never been so pleased to see them. We prepare to go back to the hospital to see my husband. My mother-in-law puts on a new dress and her favourite brooch. I want to howl, but I tell her gently that her son is in a coma, and will not notice. She says it doesn't matter. It will make her feel better to wear it. I stay in my tracksuit. I will change when he is better. At the hospital, I marvel at her ability to chat to her son, this person who isn't there. She sees his presence. I see the tubes and his absence. Not for the first time, I realise that she is a stronger person than I. I need him, to get through this, and he isn't there.
But I am good at focussing on the medical issues. They all marvel at my interest, my recall of his complicated medical history, and my ability to stay calm, to be "brave." It is merely my way of latching on to something other than the reality of the situation. I feel that if I do everything I can to help them with their understanding of his individual needs, he has a better chance of survival.
Day 5/6
Him
Fight. Struggle. Big red ball. Fight it. Beat it. Get back.
Her
My husband has now been transferred, with a full medical team in attendance, to a larger hospital. His coma has become quieter. He seems even more absent. Is anything happening in there at all? (We learn later that he had given one large, rugby-playing doctor a black eye as he struggled to sedate him.)
I spend my time at the hospital, or looking after the children, or phoning friends and family to provide updates. Somehow this helps me to maintain my equilibrium. Denial is my best defence. In one surreal incident, we play 'ring a ring of roses' with the toddler, unconscious of the irony of the derivation of this nursery rhyme, the bubonic plague, when we are dealing with our own deadly disease.
I have to keep busy. It is the only way to block the thoughts from my mind. I am scrubbing the kitchen floor late at night, as if this act of domesticity will improve his chances of survival.
Everyone is being so kind to me. I am touched, but don't quite understand it. His family are all suffering too. It is only when I close our bedroom door and see the empty bed that I catch a glimpse of a possible future. I chase it from my mind, afraid that negative thoughts will produce a negative reality. That night I lie in bed with the children either side of me. I hope that they are too young to sense my fear and anguish. They sleep. I don't. At 2.30am the phone rings and a nurse from the hospital informs me that my husband has deteriorated. The infection is spreading to his major organs and he is being moved to Intensive Care. She tells me that I should not come into the hospital, but should stay at home. I take the call calmly, and find everyone on the landing, waiting to hear the news. My teeth begin to chatter, as if a minor earthquake is taking place. I shake uncontrollably and break down. I feel terrible that I have lost control like this. They will think that he has died, and I cannot get the words out to tell them that it isn't so. I recognise that I am in physical shock, but can do nothing to stop it. It is a full hour before the symptoms subside and I feel such a fool. I have upset everyone, and it has achieved nothing.
Day/Night 7
Him
Fight. Don't go. Not ready to go. Stay here. They need me.
Her
Some sort of equilibrium has been established. He is still in a coma, but he hasn't died. We take his brother and sister-in-law to see him. I feel so sad for them. I have had time to become used to his altered state, but how terrible it must be for his brother to see him like this, and to feel the need to be strong, to be a man. At least women are allowed to cry.
That night, I cannot sleep. I have had no rest for several nights now. I am wide awake at 4am and something makes me phone the hospital. The night nurse tells me that he has asked for a glass of water. She seems surprised that this news produces such a volcanic response. I feel as if the Berlin Wall has come down again.
Day 8
Him
Bright lights. Hell of a headache. Feel a little tired. Where am I? I seem to be in hospital. I ask a nurse what has happened. Apparently, I have had a little infection in my brain. How long have I been here? Several days? I need my diary. I must have missed meetings. Please get my wife to bring my diary in. And a dressing gown. I need to get back to work. Oh, and, while you are here, please take the catheter out. I'm better now. I need to get back to normal.
Her
Waves of relief and adrenalin hit me. He is awake. I have spoken to him. He sounds like his normal self. I wash my hair, put a dress on, apply some make-up. There is some point to it all now. We visit him in hospital. He is grinning. What a story this is. He takes the dressing gown, grabs the diary and gives me instructions about various meetings. I have to tell him that everything is in hand. His colleagues have taken on his workload. The cogs in the machine have still turned while he has been asleep.
Day 9/10
Him
The consultant comes to speak to me. "You are a very lucky man. You were closer to death than life, you know," he says.
I like that. I beat the odds. Having a mathematical turn of mind, I like to know what the chances are, and I like to beat them.
I have to get home. My parents come to visit me and I discharge myself. We arrive on the doorstep at home. It is great to be back.
Her
I never saw the consultant. I know that I have him to thank for my husband's survival, but my vote of thanks goes to the nurses, who were there for him twenty-four hours a day, never leaving the room, never giving up on him, checking him every fifteen minutes for the four days when he was hovering between life and death. They are the unsung heroes for me.
I answer the doorbell at home, while my in-laws are at the hospital, and find my husband, wearing only his dressing gown and a broad grin. I am delighted to see him, but wonder how we will cope. He was supposed to convalesce for another two weeks before he came home.
The next few weeks
Him
This is tougher than I thought. I have no physical scars, so why am I so exhausted and low? I am banished to our room for rest, while the life of the house continues downstairs. I am bored and miserable. I can't wait to get back to work.
Her
This is tougher than I thought. I am so relieved that he is getting better, but how can I cope with everything? It is harder now than while he was critically ill. It is a supreme challenge to get to the end of every day. I would kill for a couple of hours of rest. I had a phone call from the Meningitis Trust, offering me counselling, but how could I achieve that, with a sick husband, toddler, baby and dog to look after? I feel as if one tiny straw would fracture the camel's back for good.
After Christmas
Him
Back to work. Back to normal. Always look forward, never back. I want to move house. This house is bad luck. No time to waste.
Her
Oh God!
Twenty years later, on the Orient Express
Him
This is good. A few days out of a busy life. Where can we go next?
I smile at my wife as we sip a perfect glass of wine in the dining car, the outskirts of Paris passing in a blur through the window.
"Happy Anniversary, darling."
Her
I smile back, enigmatically. "Happy Anniversary, darling. Thank you."
Thank you for being here. Thank you for fighting, when it mattered most.
I look forward, too, but I cannot stop myself from glancing backwards, and every day I count my blessings that you are still with me.
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