Small Acts of Kindness, page 10
Lucky? It’s a funny way to look at it.
Maxwell certainly is knowledgeable, though. He’s helped me understand what has happened to me better than anybody else. He described it all slowly. The bleed was in the lowest area where the brain meets the spinal cord, and if I think of it as the part of the brain which controls messages to everywhere else, it no longer works. With no messages telling it to move, the body does not move. Sometimes, a haemorrhage in this area leads to the entire body being paralysed, while the mind continues to function normally. This is called locked-in syndrome because, essentially, those who have it are locked inside their own bodies. In these cases, though, patients will generally be able to blink and to move their eyes up and down. It is the one function that will be spared.
What makes everything more complicated in my case is these other areas of damage in my brain, which the doctors assume is due to the football injury. They think these may have contributed to a greater lack of awareness. So although I’m no longer in a coma, they believe I could still be in a vegetative state, not really aware of anything around me, or a minimally conscious one, where I have limited awareness of the world, but my capacity for thinking in the way in which I used to think has gone.
It is not always easy to diagnose which of these states a patient is in. From scans and other tests, the neurologists don’t think it’s altogether impossible that I am in a locked-in state, except that the lack of clear response by blinking or eye movement leads them to feel that a vegetative or minimally conscious state is more likely. Assessment is ongoing.
‘The most important thing,’ Maxwell told me, ‘is that there are documented improvements from all of these conditions. People have come out of vegetative and minimally conscious states. Coming out of a locked-in syndrome is rare, but recoveries happen. Brains are amazing things. They find new pathways, new ways of working. I’m not saying you’ll be able to step back into your old life, but there’s so much that is worth working for.’
Maxwell started telling me about another young man who’d been in a coma after a rugby match. I don’t remember the end of the story. I must have drifted away before he finished.
Tammy’s stopped talking. There are noises of cars nearby, and the encouraging comments of the young man to the older one, ‘That’s very good, Mr Donaldson. So if you can dig just a tiny bit deeper and let me give you this to plant in. What’s that – call you Irvin, you say. That’s my uncle’s name. You don’t hear it very often, do you.’
There is a sudden sourness in my throat. It is the taste of self-pity.
How can it be asking for too much to blink? Just to blink.
To show the world I still exist. Or not quite me, perhaps, but what is left of me. I’m not asking to run or to ski or to swim. To blink. To have somebody ask me, ‘So is your family from Scotland? Blink if so,’ and to be able to tell them, ‘Yes, they are.’ Or actually, not – I have an English mother and my father was American, but there are Scottish roots a few generations back. Is that asking too much? For somebody to acknowledge that some tiny bit of me is in here still.
My name is Ned. I am still here.
I blink.
I do it. I fucking blink.
Tammy must have seen.
But Tammy is not looking. She is turning her back at this precise moment and saying to somebody who is blocked from my view, ‘Hello. Can I help you?’
For fuck’s sake, look at me. I am blinking. My name is Ned. I am right here. Look at me.
Tammy is turned away, listening to this stranger say, ‘Thank you. I think I’m a little bit lost. I’m meant to meet somebody at the hospital chapel but I reckon I’ve come the wrong way.’
That accent could be Australian but I think it’s New Zealand. ‘Mint to meet someone.’ My mother had a boyfriend from New Zealand after she and Maxwell split up. Steve? Or Dave maybe. But for heaven’s sake, Tammy, forget the lost stranger for a moment. Look at me. I’m blinking. I’m fucking blinking.
‘The chapel’s round the other side of the unit, actually. If you go back out of the garden . . .’
Stop it, Tammy. Look at me. Look at me. Now. My name is Ned. I need you to look. Look at me. Look. Now. I am here. Look.
‘If you follow signs to Cardiology, then . . .’
‘I think your patient needs you.’
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘Your patient. All that blinking means he needs something, don’t you reckon?’
‘Sorry. You mean Norton?’
As Tammy turns back towards me, I have a view of the stranger just beyond her. A red beret with two brunette plaits. Round glasses.
‘Norton? Hang on, Norton from the paper?’
I blink. Again. Just like that. I blink.
‘Pilates Ned? Ned 30? That’s what his friends call him – Ned.’
I blink.
There’s a squeal, and a shriek of, ‘You’re blinking!’ from Tammy.
And I blink and I blink and I blink and I blink.
MRS M
I
DO NOT KNOW WHAT has come over me. I have never been one for histrionics, as anybody who knows me would attest. Yet the more I attempt to pull myself together, the harder I seem to cry. I feel so undignified, not least, I’m afraid to say, because this is not a few ladylike tears. My nose is running. I can taste it.
‘One does not say snotty, if you please, Roger,’ I always tell him. ‘One must say “congested”.’ But just look at me. I’m dribbling, too. I can feel it on my chin. My arm, for some reason, does not have the strength to wipe it away. Mary Malley, you pathetic old woman. Whatever would Roger say?
‘Nurse, bring me a tissue,’ I call. Except those are not the words that come out. I’m not sure what those words are. They do not sound like me. They do not sound much like words. Why can I not do this one simple thing? I can’t even—
There are thoughts in my head. And yet, when I try to grasp them, to pin down what it is I’m thinking, they – go. I cannot find those – things. The things I want to – to – thing.
I want to tell myself to pull myself together. Only, as the nice doctor said, it’s normal not to be myself right now. Only to be expected. ‘Mary, you’ve had a little stroke,’ I remind myself. But thank goodness Vicar and Harriet weren’t here when I began this childish crying. I should have died of shame if they’d seen me this way.
Where did she go? Harriet? She was here a moment ago, talking about her dog. That silly creature she insists on making such a fuss of. I wanted to tell her that she didn’t need to stay in my house, since she has a perfectly nice home of her own. Except it wasn’t there. The thing. I couldn’t. House. It wasn’t there. She was wearing that hat. I remember asking her when she bought it. ‘Whatever next? A string of onions?’ But she insisted it was snazzy.
Come to think of it, she was not herself either. Harriet. The glasses. New, I suppose. But there was also – the things. The voice. The way she— and I don’t suppose Harriet would have come, because—
Because—
Oh, bother these stupid tears, and this congested nose. I really could do with a handkerchief. I rather think I have to ask the nurse for a bedpan, too. So undignified, but I really think I must. I must call. I must find the – thing – in my – the thing.
But it won’t come. The thing in my – the thing – to say. Just a noise. And there is no nurse. And I need to.
Harriet is dead. It can’t have been Harriet, now can it. And I am a disgusting old lady, drooling. Control yourself, Mary Malley, for heaven’s sake.
But I need the nurse. I need the nurse. With the bedpan. Right now. And I’m trying to call, but what comes out of my mouth is obscenity and tears, and then laughter.
I am laughing like a madwoman. Like a lunatic. Like some common fishwife. And, finally, the nurse is coming. But it is too late and there is a smell. Revolting. Shameful. I am so sorry. So awfully sorry. Yet, I do not seem able to stop laughing.
KIKI
‘Y
EAH, NAH. THAT’S UNKIND. She’s not so bad when you know her.’ This is what I’m saying as I’m pulling the pint, because I can’t let him say such things.
His cheeks are pinker than when I served him his last one, which was number three. Robert is a builder who has a pest control business as a sideline. Sturgiss Pest Patrol. His wife cleans the pub on Monday and Thursday mornings, but she never comes in outside of work. She’s at home now with their three small children and his mother, most likely. Sarah is his wife’s name. Sarah and Rob Sturgiss. Turgid Sturgiss, Meredith calls him. Turgid Breast Patrol. I think she was at school with him.
‘But I do know her. I’ve known Malicious Malley a lot longer than you have.’ He’s leaning across the bar and the fruity smell of beer and something that’s maybe cabbage hits my nose. ‘And she’s a bossy old bitch.’
I shrug and start polishing glasses that don’t need polishing. It gives me the chance to step out of his breath and to move my chest out of his sight. Even with my back turned, he starts a story about being eight years old, and Mrs M reprimanding him for his ungainly manner. Those are the precise words. ‘Robert Sturgiss, why must you insist on carrying yourself in such an ungainly manner?’ I have to pretend that I have a cough at this point, because the impression is really very good, but also because Mrs M was quite right. He’s six foot something now, with a belly but skinny legs and feet that stick out almost sideways in worker boots, and arms that hang by his sides so that he kind of waddles when he walks, like a kind of spoonbill, maybe, or some long-legged duck.
I’m not really listening though, because in my head I’m still replaying what happened earlier. You know when something happens and you just can’t stop thinking about it. Norton Edbury from the newspaper being there in the garden. Pilates Ned. I couldn’t really see him at first because the nurse was in the way. I was just asking her where to go, and she was starting to answer and she must have moved or something, because that’s when I saw him blinking away, and so I knew he must want something.
I didn’t recognise him until Tammy squealed his name and, ‘You’re blinking!’ She kept asking him all those questions, like blink if he could understand her, blink if he knew where he was, blink if his name was Norton, blink if he’d rather be called Ned. Even the old man planting the flower couldn’t stop watching. And then Norton’s stepfather arrived and he kept thanking me, like I was the one who’d made it happen.
‘How did you know he likes to be called Ned?’ That’s what he wanted to know. I told him about the photo in the paper with the Ned 30 birthday top. I think he was pretty impressed I’d remembered it. To be fair, I was pretty impressed myself.
Maxwell’s the stepdad’s name. I hope I didn’t offend him by asking if he was Norton’s grandfather. It was sweet of him to buy me a coffee and say he’d be happy to give me a lift into the hospital whenever he was going in. He comes through Little Piddleton anyway, he said. He gave me his number.
They were going to talk to the doctors again, and Maxwell said that now they’d have to agree that Norton, Ned, is fully aware of what’s going on around him. They’ll document it all and get a proper diagnosis.
I’ll call Maxwell tomorrow. Perhaps he could take me in to visit Mrs M again. I could pop in to say hello to Norton-Ned, too.
‘Do you know what else your wonderful Mary Malley did, Kiki?’
Rob Sturgiss is leaning so far over the bar that his head is practically touching the beer tap. He tells a story about confiscated footballs and then starts on another one about him being in trouble with the old vicar because of changing a few words of the Lord’s Prayer. ‘Our Father who fart in Heaven.’ Bob Sturgiss shakes his head. Just a little joke. No reason for Mrs Malley to create such a fuss. He was suspended from cub scouts and his mother was mortified.
Rob Sturgiss orders another pint. His eyes watch my chest as I pour it.
He’s been in every night this week. I’m guessing we’re almost at the point when he starts asking what brought a nice girl like me over from Australia, then maybe another pint off whether or not I have a boyfriend. There’s nobody else in tonight, or else I could go and collect empties. But there’s not much to do except listen.
I wasn’t meant to be working, only Meredith was invited to a party last minute so Mervyn said I had to. He couldn’t, he said, as he always plays bridge on Mondays. I don’t think Wordsworth was happy I was going out. Maybe that’s why he dug that big hole in the lawn.
‘So, Kiki, what’s a smart young Kiwi doing working in a village pub over here?’
Right country at least.
‘I was born in England. Not too far from here. Technically, I’m a Brit.’
‘‘Nd so what brings you back?’ Just a tiny slur on the ‘s’ of ‘so’.
I wonder what he’d say if I said, ‘Well, Robert, since you ask, I’ve come to track down a man called Stan Douglas so I can ask him why he poisoned my mother.’
But I don’t say that. Instead I roll out the normal stuff about broadening my horizons. ‘Also there are some festivals I need to go to. Glastonbury, if you know anyone who’s selling a ticket. My family worked the festivals when they were young. I haven’t had the chance to go to many. I want to, you know, find my roots.’
‘You’ll end up staying here. You’ll never go back now.’
It’s not clear from the gaze whether he means me as a whole person, or whether this comment is for my breasts alone.
Rob orders another beer.
‘There must be a boyfriend, Kiki? Some lucky man?’
No, Rob. Neither they nor I have one currently. Same answer as when you asked three nights ago. We’ve never even had a long-term relationship, in case you’d care to ask that again too. Just the normal embarrassing one-night stands with blokes as drunk as you, and mostly as boring.
‘But surely you should be somewhere more exciting than house-sitting for that old cow? You’re not a bad-looking girl, Kiki. You know, if I wasn’t married . . .’
Oh, please.
We’ve worn out the ‘I’m not planning to settle down for a few years yet’ conversation over the last week or so. So instead, I lead us back to, ‘She’s not so bad when you get to know her.’ And Turgid Sturgiss tells my chest a few more stories about Mrs M ruining his childhood.
TWO WEEKS LATER
NED
‘A
ND BABY, YOU PROMISE me you’re doing OK? Really?’
I blink.
‘That’s so great to hear. And your therapists? They’re working you hard?’
Blink.
‘And you really don’t need me back there again just yet?’
I blink and blink again.
‘Next month, though, honey, I promise, because I so want to see you again. I’d give anything to be there with you right now. But Sadie says this lunch with the Korean director could be really positive. Because Korean cinema is having such a moment, which means this project could be actually very important. You get that, don’t you, Norton? Not just artistically important, but culturally important too.’
Silence.
‘You get that, hon? Tell me you do.’
I hadn’t realised she was waiting for an answer. I blink.
There is a moment more silence.
‘And they’re looking after you? The nurses. They’re being kind to you?’
I have the impression that my mother finds these Skype calls harder now she knows that I understand every word. She has to create openings. It takes effort.
Meanwhile, on the chair between the stand with my various drips and the monitors which trace whatever of my bodily functions they trace, sits an obscenely large pink teddy bear with a T-shirt that says Congratulations. Toby brought it in. I presume it was a joke.
‘Sorry about the T-shirt,’ he said, as the bear preceded him in through the door. ‘It was either that or I Love You. And well, I like you, Ned mate. But wouldn’t want you getting the wrong impression.’ Honking laughter.
He’s been all right, actually, Toby. His visits are different to Bella’s when there’s lots of arm clutching and insistence that I’ll walk out of the hospital on my own two feet. They were here at the same time the other day. Toby set us a quiz. Yes/no questions or multiple choice – one blink for a, two blinks for b, three blinks for c. Mostly football and rugby and music questions, so I beat Bella twenty-three to nine. The sad truth is that it was as near to fun as I’ve come since going in for that header and then waking up to find that I was wired up in intensive care.
‘Maxwell’s been there a lot, I imagine?’ My mother cannot keep the resentment out of her voice when she says his name. Does she expect a blink in response, I wonder?
Yes, Mother, Maxwell has been in every day. He’s pored over my notes with each doctor on the team. He’s discussed plans and strategies with the physios, speech therapists and occupational therapists. He has started researching new technologies, living and mobility aids and communication methods. He explains everything to me slowly and patiently and without sugar-coating and makes certain that I have all the information I need. He told me that the diagnosis of locked-in syndrome is an encouraging one in that it tells everybody that my brain is still functioning intellectually, but it is not such good news in that the incidences of recovery are few and far between. He has brought me examples of those who have also been struck down like this and who have learned to move a finger, or regained some mobility in their heads, or their legs, or who have found their voice, or some semblance of their voice, again; those even who have walked and run and gone back to living their lives. But he has – kindly, gently – made sure I am aware that for all of these exceptions, there are many more who have remained paralysed in all of their body, except those muscles that allow blinking and the upward and downward motion of the eye itself.
For now, he says, we must be grateful that this ability has been returned. It is a small thing that will make a big difference.
The neurologists can still not say definitively why I was unable to do it at first. Bruising to my brain from the goalpost perhaps. I still can’t believe that was not a winner. I swear my head was on the ball. Sam took the perfect corner. A brilliant cross. All I had to do was tap it in. The perfect set-up for the perfect header and it would have put us ahead. In my mind, I was already celebrating the goal.
