chapter eight: boyfriend in a coma

Now that’s a good night’s rest you’ve just had. Haven’t slept so well since…..well…….since you were a baby. Somewhere the cleaners are making their way down the ward. Somehow this sparks something. Neurones are flickering. Listen. Your soundtrack has been switched back on. And listen again. There’s a radio playing softly too but you can’t make out the song. It’s almost there but right then your mental processes are interrupted by a really loud bang as somebody gets careless and knocks over a metal basin they’ve been using as part of MSRA awareness week. A really loud bang. Yes, a really loud bang. You’ve heard it before. Where? When? It’s like that song that’s skirting round your memory and just as suddenly as the soundtrack came back the MLC sort of takes off…..
It stays airborne for quite a while it seems but it’s really only long enough for the tanker driver to breathe his last onto the steering wheel and for the weight of his now dead body to flip the wheel round, saving you but killing seventeen others. Then the plug gets pulled on the soundtrack and it’s all gone quiet. Sleepy, peaceful and quiet.
Fucking hell, that really was good sleep. You stretch and are jarred awake by the uncomfortable bedframe. You’ve been dreaming about driving again. Been doing that a lot recently. Then there’s a fire in your arm and you tug it away from something that’s attached at the wrist and there’s more pain and blood and a tube drops to the floor. You can make out a drip stand with an infusion pump then there’s footsteps in the corridor and a nurse, yes, a genuine uniformed nurse appears at the bedside.
Sometime about now you’re supposed to say ‘Where am I? What happened?’ but you don’t feel like speaking much. You don’t feel like speaking much because you’ve just remembered what happened and it’s not very pleasant. Well, not the bits and pieces you remember anyway. Oh no, not the MLC getting trashed, although that was bad enough, oh no…..this was even more, much more painful. Something happened when you were in the orange and black bedroom. But the orange and black bedroom reminds you of the orange and black flames from the burning tanker and from the mini bus full of kids. It was on fire. Well, not exactly on fire. That suggests a cosy scene somehow. Not on fire then…. more like….well, it just burst into flames didn’t it? Exploded? Popped? Yeh, popped is good. It wasn’t an explosive event. It actually burst open like a piece of over ripe fruit and it was instantly ablaze while you were being Superman and flying through the air.
The orange and black bedroom is getting more vivid now and you start to cry. The nurse does a smart about turn. She’s going to check the chart and see who has won the coma raffle. She missed this one by five days.
‘Fetch Clare’, she tells one of the cleaners, ‘he’s waking up’.
She scans the chart. Oh no, not again. There’s a strong movement to keep the bloody medics out of the contest: too much inside knowledge and a strong suspicion they manipulate the patients’ condition pharmaceutically.
To your confused head it seems callous and uncaring. Don’t they teach nurses to care for people anymore? You could really do with a bit of TLC right about now.
You’ve been in hospital before. They can’t keep you here. You got out that time before, didn’t you? Remember that night when you had the operation on your thumb? You stopped a twenty yard screamer, entirely by accident, as it bent round the defensive wall with you on the end and your hands on your hips, trying to look cool and unconcerned. Hit your thumb end on and snapped it like a match stick. Tore the tendons that attach the thumb to your hand. Of course the schemies were screaming for a foul. ‘’Hand ball, ref. Fuckin’ hand ball! It’s hit ‘im on the fuckin’ hand!’
So the ref. got the book out. Not for you. For them. For the screaming schemies.
‘Yeah’, says the ref. ‘It hit him on the hand. Accidental. Now, name please, number six’.
And you stood there with a useless thumb, an injured hand, one – nil down and twenty minutes to go and you had to look as if it didn’t hurt, like it was nothing.
‘Come on then!’ you shout, clapping your hands to organise the defence, ‘Let’s focus!’ But the pain in your hand focuses your mind the way an electric shock focuses cattle in an abattoir. But you play on. This is football. It’s a man’s game.
You move forward to support the midfield. Things are desperate. The move breaks down and they counter. Number six, your opposite and personal combatant comes at you with the ball at his feet. He’s good, but he’s not that clever. You invite him outside and he turns inside. So predictable. You block and drag the loose ball back into your control with the sole of your boot. But six isn’t done yet.
‘Cunt,' he whispers in your ear, his face as close as a lover as he drags his studs down the inside of your leg from the knee to the ankle. The ball slips free and their little number seven is on it in an instant. In a heartbeat he’s getting ready to sprint for the open spaces that now exist behind the defence. This is not the time for subtlety.
They get the text book out. The blonde with the ponytail puts on her reading glasses and reads in her most authoritative voice….
‘Coma is a profound state of unconsciousness from which the sufferer may not be roused. It may be a transient phenomenon during acute illness or persist in the long term………’
‘Oh, get to the bit about coming round, for fuck’s sake’, advises the other, plumper blonde, ‘before those fucking wanky medics turn up and grab the glory’.
Reading glasses blonde scans the pages.
‘There’s nowt here about coming round’, she wails.
Tall skinny brunette snatches the book from her and flicks to the index tutting. ‘Textbook of Clinical Neurology! Shit. We need something about nursing care of the coma patient’. Her tutor would be proud of her.
‘Should we really be discussing this in front of the patient’, suggests the small first year student nurse. ‘What if he really wakes up?’
Then they all jump back from the bed as you struggle with the sheets, legs pumping and incoherent sounds coming from your mouth. Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
Seven is rolling about like he’s been hit by shell fire. Six is mouthing in your ear about what he’s fucking going to fucking do to you ya fucking cunt. Really, the boy’s got no style. You amble away casually, stopping only to lean over seven solicitously and pat him on the shoulder. You offer an apology.
‘Sorry about the leg, mate.’
He looks bemused.
‘Yeh’, I was aiming for the other one’
Suddenly he’s cured and the ref, big fat kid, fat but fair, hauls you away from the crowd scene.
‘Name’.
He drinks in the ‘Lion’ and his missus is one of the students in your group. He knows your name but you tell him anyway.
‘How do you spell that second name, Gary?’ he says. Pathetic. Like he doesn’t know how to or can’t spell Gilmore. So you spell it out for him.
D – A – L – G – L – I – S……..
‘That’s not funny, Gary’ he says and shows you a yellow card. Well thumbed edition too by the looks of it. Meantime some kind of order is restored and the opposition take their free kick. Straight away the action is back to basics. The ball is coming down in your area as you rise to head it clear. No doubt about it, you’re going to get challenged in the air and sure enough six crashes into you, leading with a shoulder that hits you in the chest. He even manages to get some forehead on the side of your face and on the way down sneaks in a right jab to your ribs. Got to hand it to the kid, no class, but plenty bottle. You crash to the turf and bounce to a halt somewhere near the D.
Third year student boy is on the scene now. He’s done time in A&E and he’s been seeing the staff nurse off the orthopaedic ward. The girls make way for his expertise.
He looks on for a moment before passing his opinion.
‘Looks like he’s playing footie, if you ask me. Anybody coming for a fag?’
Jesus, but that hurt. That really, really hurt. Of course by now World War Three’s going on. Threats, insults, promises, instigators and pacifiers push and pull at each other while Fat but Fair collects enough names to start a phone directory.
You wipe away a bead of sweat that’s dripping into your eye, except it’s not sweat, it’s blood. You feel really tired. You just want a quick nap. Is this how concussion begins?
Everybody else must be feeling tired too because it’s quickly settled and then Fat but Fair decides that he needs to demonstrate a compassionate side to his arbiter’s nature. He calls both of you, that’s you and number six, calls the pair of you over into his little patch of neutral territory and orders you to shake hands. Six just grins. The bastard knows. He marches across, all bonhomie and good grace.
‘Nae bother, big man’
He grabs you by the hand and squeezes as hard as he can, giving it an extra pump. Then, as if to cement this new bond of brotherhood, he clamps his other hand on top. You just hold his gaze and reflect that your sex life is probably over. Until you learn to use your left hand. Oh yes, it’s a man’s game alright.
‘I think you’ll find that smoking is not permitted anywhere within the hospital premises, as defined….’
‘Can it, swotty’, says third year as he extracts a half smoked joint from his tunic pocket. Even in a smoking jacket this would be deemed louche behaviour. As things stand he just looks like a prat. Even plump blonde arches an eyebrow.
‘Anyone?’
Back in the dressing room the sting of defeat disintegrates as they help you off with your boots and out of your strip and on with the street gear and into the van and eventually into A&E. But not before the obligatory post-mortem in the Thistle Hotel. So by the time the nurse is asking about the pain the alcohol has done some good.
A doctor comes to examine your thumb.
‘Been skiing?’
The thought occurs to you that he’s asking about your holiday but apparently this kind of injury is common on plastic slopes like the one they have at Parkwood Springs. Beginners fall down, the thumb gets caught in the webbing and tears. So you spare the guy the diatribe on what you think of skiing and skiers. He’s only doing his job.
‘No’, you tell him. ‘Football’.
He nods his head.
‘This is going to hurt’ he says before taking your thumb in one hand and the rest of your hand in the other. He pulls them apart.
He explains why he has to do this but you can’t hear anything. The pain is excruciating. Nothing else exists.
He’s nodding his head again. ‘We’re going to have to repair that’ is his summary. ‘You can go home and collect a few things and we’ll see you back here later this afternoon. Try to get you booked in for this evening. Maybe even get you home tomorrow. You ok?’
You nod. You’re going to have an operation.
Plump blonde is leaning over your bed now.
‘You’re going to have an operation’.
‘Oh shut up. He’s not having an operation’, says skinny brunette.’ And anyway, he can’t hear you. Can you sweetheart?’
‘According to this he is’, says plump blonde, holding up the theatre list for the next day.
‘Where did you find that?’, says the red headed doctor and the student nurses fall silently into line.
‘I’ve been looking for that. Now, who can tell me what the long term prognosis might be in a case like this? And effective treatment strategies?
New student clears her throat.
‘I was looking at an article in the Nursing Standard last week…………’
When the rest of them have calmed down and recovered from their fake swooning episodes she tells them what she found.
‘Apparently it’s all down to the multi-disciplinary team, especially the community nurses, physios, OT, and the person's family and friends. Pre-discharge assessment needs to consider….’
She pauses to remember the quote.
‘……..whether safety is compromised by the amnesia’.
Clare nods. Student continues.
‘So precautions such as preventing the person from driving and not leaving them alone in the house, regular input from psychology and visits really…… Monitoring, I suppose’.
‘Excellent’, says Clare. ‘Now let’s see what the patient thinks of the assessment’.
Small student looks at the floor as the two blondes pat her on the head. Befriended, she risks a smile.
Skinny brunette whispers out the side of her mouth, inclining her head at Clare who is by now approaching the bed.
‘Used to be a nurse, her’.
‘Got sacked, I heard’, says plump blonde. ‘Too fond of the doctors apparently’.
‘Best check out her bedside manner then, eh?’. Skinny brunette nudges small student hard in the ribs and they all gather round.
‘Hello, Gary’ she says. ‘Good to see you awake at last’
Well, that’s nice. Stretching the point a bit but nice all the same. And somebody just called you a sweetheart. Things may be looking up.
‘My name’s Clare’
Nice name. Knew a Clare once, didn’t you. Or was that Claire?
‘Can you talk to me Gary?’
Well, that depends now, doesn’t it? There’s a lot to say, not to mention some questions to be asked but actually you’re not feeling too talkative right now.
‘I’m guessing you’re in quite a lot of pain, am I right?’
The pain comes in waves. Just gentle ones at first. Just like at the seaside. Then the waves get bigger and bigger until you’re drowning in this tide of pain. And then it just gets stupid. It’s not pain any more. There isn’t a word for this kind of assault on your nervous system. Your brain just can’t assimilate this much information. You feel sick with the pain. You want to get up and walk around to dissipate the pain. You want a glass of water for the pain. The pain receptors can’t keep up. So you just lie there. Not making a sound.
But well done Clare. Still, it’s your job.
‘I’ll be back to see you later, Gary. The nurse will give you something for the pain. Bye’.
She walks away and the nurse prepares the syringe. Something for the pain. That would be useful. But what exactly? A box to keep it in, maybe. Better make that a fucking big box then. And while you’re about it, make sure it’s strong. One of those cartoon ACME strong boxes with padlocks and chains. Yeh, that might do the trick. But how do you contain memories? It’s the memories that hurt; the gaps hurt more.
The nurse has re-sited the drip and is now injecting the contents of the syringe into the tube via the portal.
‘You’ll feel better for that’, she says.
Wanna bet? …oh, that’s good…oh…..tha….
and the duvet cover…….
…ah…….
…her hair…….the black and orange…..
….ahhhhh….
……….and the morphine engages with your central nervous system and it’s goodnight Vien………..
…….aaaaaaaaah!