Small Acts of Kindness, page 3
This bed creaks whenever I shift my weight trying to make myself comfortable. I’ll have to talk to Mervyn about a new mattress because this one’s heaps saggy and the springs poke you when you move. Trying to lie in a way where I’m not spiked in the night is giving me back ache and now I’m stretching and thinking maybe this yoga extravaganza day could help make my back muscles stronger.
And maybe it’s because I’m thinking about yoga that I notice the words on the front page of the newspaper as I’m flipping it closed. It’s next to the one of the man with the top that says NED 30. And it’s him again, doing some sort of press-up but with one of his legs out straight too, and he’s wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that says Pilates, Passion & Practice. So I’m thinking how Pilates is like yoga, but also that you can sort of hear a man’s voice saying it in a really cheesy way: Pilates, passion and practice. And also thinking that maybe I shouldn’t grumble about a dodgy mattress and not having my Glastonbury ticket when this poor man’s unconscious in hospital.
He has a nice smile.
When I was younger I used to beg Yaya to let me have braces like all the girls at school had. Yaya said no, of course. She said my teeth were what I was born with and that beauty was what nature gave to us. Pilates Ned had braces, I reckon, or else nature was kind enough for those lovely teeth to be born that way. Probably they were. I mean, look at him. Even his pot plant is perfect.
It says under the picture that Annabella Hopkins, fiancée of Norton Edbury – known to his friends as Ned – is raising money for therapies that might help him. To make donations go to a JustGiving page or check his YouTube channel, Pilates, Passion & Practice.
But I’m sorry, Norton Edbury. There are only three weeks until Glasto and I need every penny for when my ticket shows up.
NED
O
FTEN THEY TALK AS if I am not here. Or here as nothing but a physical object of no other significance. They speak amongst themselves about my vital signs and my temperature, my scans, my catheter and feeding bag and my needing to be turned or washed or to have my sheets changed or my case discussed. They read out my consultant’s notes and they talk of pathways and the demand for beds. They do not use my name. Not very often. ‘This one’, they say, or ‘He’. Or ‘Bed Five’.
‘I’ve changed Bed Five’s drip, but he still needs turning over.’
‘If you could do Bed Five’s vital signs. His temperature was a little on the high side earlier.’
‘Keep the notes out for Bed Five. He’s still waiting for Doctor to come round.’
‘I have a name,’ I want to tell them. ‘I am here.’ Except I’m not, am I? Or here perhaps, but not I. I am not me.
The dreams are the worst, because when I dream, I’m running or dancing or fighting or doing whatever crazy shit we do in our dreams. Even in my most irrational dreams, it’s me in my body and only the world that is warped. Then I wake up. And it is a few beats before I remember, and in those moments I’m thinking that I’m just about to sit up and then stand up, and I’m going to say, on my way to meet the day, ‘What a mad dream I just had.’
But there is no sitting, no standing, no saying – and then I remember.
‘We need to prepare Bed Five for transfer to the rehab unit.’ That was the ward sister, KerryAnne, earlier on, talking to one of the other nurses, Paulina, I think it was. I wonder where I’m going next. Not that it makes much difference. Acute ward or rehab unit, it will smell the same. The lights will be bright and switch off at 7 p.m. The bed may have another number but I will still be the thing in the bed.
In the beginning, I tried so hard. I was certain that trying would make it happen – the saying, the sitting, the standing. Here I was – in my time of tribulation, my time to dig deep and find out just how exceptional the human spirit was. Everything had been taken from me. But watch me, world, I’d come through this to write my song of resilience. I tried and I tried and I tried. I tried to blink my eyes, to wiggle my fingers, to open my mouth, to make a noise.
And nothing came.
I sang songs in my head, ones that told me that we would overcome, that we could be heroes, that the only way was up, that whenever I felt afraid, I just whistled a happy tune and that I believed in me. And still I thought, beyond a doubt, that these things were true. Because good things come to those that try. I waited and I tried. Tried and waited. Tried and tried and tried.
I did anagrams in my head. Seeing how many small words I could make from a longer word. I wrote poems that only I could hear. And I waited. And I tried.
I can feel everything they do. The tugging and the turning and the sticking and the pricking. I ache and I hurt. My legs cramp and I want to yell and to rub my screaming muscles better. Pins and needles torment me. My bones are sore. Physiotherapists manipulate parts of my body. I feel it being done. The physios always use my name – a little too much perhaps, and the wrong name. They tell me what they’re going to do before they do it. The one I liked best was called Nathalie. Her accent was South African.
‘So, Norton, I want to believe you can hear me and you can understand me, so I’m going to assume that’s the case. Fair enough? But what I need is for you to show me. Can you move your eyes? Just look up or look down? Or can you blink? Norton, can you try and do that for me?’
How I tried. A thing as small as a blink.
‘Come on Norton, just one tiny movement of your eyes, to tell me you understand. I know you can do it.’ A warm voice and so encouraging. I wanted her to see how strong I was, what willpower I had. This was how it would start – if I could just move my gaze one centimetre – one millimetre – one tenth of a millimetre, she would see. In weeks or months or years to come, we would look back and talk about this moment. By then, I would have overcome all the obstacles as she helped me on my journey. I would have told her, nobody calls me Norton, at least nobody except my mother and my ex. I was going to try harder than any person had tried to do anything, ever. Nathalie would see how much I could make happen with my indomitable spirit.
My eyes must move. Move. Eyes. Move.
‘OK, Norton. Let’s leave that for now. Now, how about your fingers. I’m just going to lift up your left hand, OK? Like this. Good. OK, now I want you to use all your effort and try to press your fingers onto my palm.’
All my effort. All my effort. All my effort. By rights, my face should have been squeezed red and tight, with veins pulsing and eyes bulging. I once ran a half-marathon in less than an hour and a half. That was nothing compared to the effort I now put into moving a finger that will not move.
‘Right, Norton, so great try. That’s good now.’ We both knew nothing had happened. ‘Now, I’m going to take your right leg and just help it do some stretches. We call this mobilisation and what we’re doing is hoping that we can help towards restoring some motion. OK, so Norton, you’ll feel me lifting this leg up slowly and bringing it back towards your chest. That’s good. There. And then let’s straighten. Feel that? Right, and now the other leg.’
A thing being moved and pulled and pushed and that thing is me. Last week, Nathalie moved on to a paediatrics placement in Cardiff. She told me she’d written up my notes and the rest of the team would be just brilliant at working with me. ‘But listen, Norton,’ she said, ‘I want you to keep trying, OK. You keep trying to move those eyes and those fingers, Norton, because I know you can do it.’
I don’t know if she really believed it, Nathalie, but she sounded like she did. The other physios tend to sound less convinced. Or maybe they’re just bored. Like that Becky who I can hear over in the corner of the ward right now – she’s there with Bed Two, asking him if he can’t squeeze just a little tighter, but with a tone that suggests she’s thinking about whether she’ll have pasta or pizza for dinner.
After this, she will move to Bed Four – Three is always wheeled out to a different room for his physiotherapy sessions. I’m not sure why, but I’ve given up trying to understand the logic of the hospital. Then Becky will come to me and she’ll say, ‘Right, let’s start with your eyes. How about trying a blink for me please, Norton?’ And she’ll wait as if she’s counting the seconds, and she’ll scribble on her sheets.
I was so certain yesterday that I’d done it. Not a full blink, maybe, but something. A tightening, a shiver in my eye muscles. And I waited for the angels to sing hallelujah and for Becky to dance for joy and sob with relief, then run to tell the doctors the happy news. But if it truly happened, this movement of my eye – the culmination of weeks of strain and effort – she didn’t see it, because she was already telling me to have a little go at moving my fingers, please, Norton.
Nobody calls me Norton. You don’t even know me. You don’t know the first thing about me. So don’t call me fucking Norton.
‘Right. Let’s see if I put my hand into your hand here whether you can give my fingers a tiny squeeze. So, try that please, Norton. Big try.’
Don’t call me fucking Norton. My name is Ned.
MRS M
H
OLY FATHER, HEAR MY prayer. Look after Alfred Mortimer and keep him safe in your blessed kingdom. Why Vicar keeps calling him Alfie I cannot imagine. It’s not as if Alfred didn’t come to this very church every Sunday. Although he was a rather quiet person. One always had to tell him to speak up. Nice singing voice though, as I’ve told Vicar many times.
‘A lovely baritone, that Alfred Mortimer. You really should invite him onto the choir.’ You might have thought that Vicar would remember me saying that, even if he recalls nothing else about the poor man, because, for all my warning looks, on he ploughs with Alfie this, Alfie that, now let us all be seated for a moment of private prayer and reflection while we remember our friend, Alfie.
Poor Alfred. May he be at peace. Though if such music were to be played at my funeral, I fear that I should never rest. ‘Abide With Me’ and ‘Jerusalem’ were what we played for Roger. Respectful, appropriate hymns. None of this Robin Williams rubbish. Poor Alfred.
And that poem. Sweet of his granddaughter to try, but what is it about a death that makes everybody suddenly believe themselves to be Emily Dickinson?
‘I have tears in my eye, because I did not want you to die.’ I believe that was it. ‘I never wanted to part, but Grandpa’s forever in my heart.’
I trust nobody will throw together bad poetry to eulogise me. One blessing of having no children or grandchildren. And of course Harriet will not be there now, otherwise no doubt she’d have been straight up with some gushing words about friendship. No, Lord, give me Romans 8, ‘Who shall separate us from the love of Christ’. Or John 14, 1–3 ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled’. Or else . . .
What are we to sing next? This order of service is rather blurred.
Ah, Frank Sinatra. I might have known.
I . . .
Silly old eyes. I don’t seem to be able to . . .
Of course, it’s time to . . .
. . . stand and sing.
Dear me. I feel a little . . .
. . . maybe if I . . .
I shall stay seated just a moment or two, yes that’s . . .
. . . better. Just a passing . . .
Now where . . .
A migraine, perhaps. Harriet used to have them. I . . .
Yes, migraine. And isn’t a lady allowed to remain seated for a moment or two?
I . . . where are we?
. . . be thy name.
. . . thy kingdom come . . . .
Yes, perfectly well. Yes, of course I can stand. Yes, I am most certain. No, perfectly all right. Just a passing migraine. Absolutely fine.
KIKI
‘S
ILLY OLD WITCH. SPILLS her drink and then snaps at me about it. Not even a “Sorry”. Just, “Get a dustpan, Meredith”. And has the nerve to tell me my boots are inappropriate.’
Meet Meredith – Mervyn’s daughter. And, yes, she always sounds that happy. She was in a foul mood already because Merv told her that researching an essay is no reason to not help out in the pub when they have a function on. There was a lot of shouting from the kitchen while I was putting out the plates for the buffet. Him about her taking his credit card to nightclubs, her that there was no point hiring me if I couldn’t manage the bar on my own, and that he didn’t have any idea what hard work a degree was.
She had a face like a dark cloud on her before any of the guests even arrived. Now she looks like somebody’s snatched an ice cream out of her hand. She slammed that plate of cheese straws down. Look how it made Vicar jump. He was waiting for me to pour him his sherry, and saying what a good turnout it was for dear Alfie. Now he can’t get away quickly enough.
‘I’m not clearing up her mess. I was perfectly polite, offering her the sandwich platter and she makes this face at me, and drops her glass on the floor. Not even an apology. Stupid cow.’ As she’s telling me this, Meredith’s making a face. ‘So I ask her what the hell she’s doing and she just stares at me like she doesn’t even know who I am. It’s my pub for heaven’s sake. Must be drunk, the silly witch, or overexcited about outliving another one of the old bastards. You only ever see her in here after a funeral. Taking notes, probably. Or maybe it’s the free drinks. She was definitely slurring. And that look.’
The face again.
‘You get the dustpan, Kiki. You’re her friend. I’ll mind the bar.’
‘Whose friend?’ Because I don’t know anybody here and Meredith hasn’t told me which old witch she’s talking about.
‘Her, of course. Poisonous old cow.’ I’m not sure if Meredith is still mimicking or if this is her own expression to tell me how stupid I am. But I’m looking over in the direction she’s nodding in and even though the pub is full of pensioners in black, I know who she’s talking about. The pub is pretty crowded but there’s a space around her. Maybe because of the broken glass.
She really does look a bit like the Queen of England, on a not-great day. She might wear one of those hats, although this one also looks a bit like those knitted things people put on teapots. And you never see pictures of the Queen with her hair sticking out like that. A bit like a wire brush. But still, she looks decent for somebody that age.
‘Kiki. Get the bloody dustpan.’
I could point out to Meredith that she was only just complaining about people not saying ‘please’ but I’m not sure that would go down well, so I just nod and go to find it.
‘No O.’
I don’t know if this was the look that Meredith was talking about but it’s pretty stern. Except I don’t know what the old woman is talking about. No O? All I said was that I was going to clear up the broken glass, Mrs O’Malley, if she didn’t mind.
‘There is not an O in my name. Do I look Irish to you? My name is Malley, Mary Malley. No O. You may call me Mrs Malley.’
Let’s not mention those times I’ve taken her dog back after he’s turned up howling outside the pub and she’s called me ‘you’ or ‘girl’ or ‘whatever-your-name-is’. Instead I’m mumbling an apology and saying I’ve just come to clear up the glass she dropped.
‘I did no such thing.’
I can’t even look at her. ‘But . . . Meredith said . . .’
‘What Meredith Paterson says about anything is of no interest to me.’
I’m about to say something else, but maybe it’s best not to. I’m trying not to stare at the broken pieces of glass on the floor. I’m trying not to stare at her either. Except, the more I’m trying not to, the more I can’t help doing it. And the look she’s giving me back is not friendly.
Like Meredith said, something does look a bit off. Like she’s frowning, but with her eyes. And the words are out without stopping to think. ‘Is something wrong, Mrs Malley?’
And of course now her face looks fine again. Except that it does look pretty angry.
‘Of course there is nothing wrong. And I would most certainly remember if I had dropped a glass. I may be eighty-four but I am not senile quite yet.’
NED
I
NEVER KNEW HOW FREE I was.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew I was lucky, that I’d had a good draw in the old lottery of life. Without being big-headed, I had health and enough money, decent looks and brains. As people go, I knew that I was OK.
But I didn’t know how free I was. I didn’t know that luck was a smaller thing than having friends who enjoyed my company or YouTube comments from people who loved my videos. Luck was walking to the shops. Luck was lifting a toilet lid. Luck was answering a phone. Luck was googling.
Googling – silly word. Something that felt too easy to be of any value. Something that I thought as little of as breathing, not that I take that for granted anymore. The one glorious relief of this godawful time was my lungs frog-kicking back to the surface when they finally pulled out that tube.
When I’m feeling that nothing could be worse than my current existence, I remind myself of those days, when the air was being pushed into and sucked out of me. I could feel it and I could hear it, awake and aware, with my throat open like an inflatable doll. So things could be worse. I cannot do much, but I can breathe.
Luck is breathing. How did I never know that?
Luck is googling.
Back then I could have tapped in key words such as ‘coma’ or ‘consciousness’ or ‘cerebral haemorrhage’, ‘paralysis’ or ‘prognosis’. Knowledge was at my fingertips. Now, I listen out for scraps of information and, when they come, I’m ready to pounce – metaphorically – so that I can store them away like a squirrel before winter. I hoard my snippets, stockpiling them in my head. If I can collect up enough of these jigsaw pieces, I will be able to put them together into the full picture. But I struggle to remember the words, I do not understand all the meanings and my only search engine is me.
All of those important early discussions happened when everything was so foggy. Was it the drugs? Or perhaps my damaged brain was still too bruised to focus. None of it felt like it could be real. My mother was there – crying, begging them to fix me, sobbing. That seems likely enough. But I was sure my father was there too, and he’s been dead fifteen years. Let alone the children at the end of my bed singing nursery rhymes.
