James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

‘Thank you,’ I say, looking up at her.

‘But I know what you’re like, Ivo. You’re the type of person who’s got this worry-shaped hole in the middle of your head. And it doesn’t matter what’s going on, it doesn’t matter what I do to make things better, you’re going to fill it with whatever’s in front of you at the time. You’re not the first to do this, and I dare say you won’t be the last. So do yourself a favour and keep yourself occupied, all right? It’ll help, I promise.’

Intestine

YEAH, NOW IT comes up.

Intestine.

I could do a whole A to Z of my life’s worth of intestinal misery. What have I ever done to be cursed with a body that deals with any level of stress with a punch straight to the gut?

Three nights I threw up when I moved to secondary school. I didn’t know where any of the classrooms were, I had all new lessons, and I’d been warned these were all going to be much more difficult, I had to wear a new uniform — all that stuff, like a putrefying knot in my belly.

My first day at the garden centre, aged eighteen, I threw up in the lunch break at the sheer amount of new information they were giving me about how to operate the tills. Within a fortnight I was even doing returns and refunds without having to think about it. It’s easy, it’s easy. But my intestines had to have their moment.

It’s like, something has not been worth doing if I haven’t thrown up in contemplating it.

‘Poor love,’ you say, stroking my back as my stomach muscles spasm again and I am subjected to another involuntary heave of fetid breath and spittle. ‘Come here—’ you hand me a pat of tissue and a tall glass of fresh water. I swill out my mouth and spit it down the toilet. Flush it away.

I slip on your dressing gown and look down.

‘It makes my arms look really long.’

‘It’s pretty. Come on, back to bed.’

I shuffle across the landing, trying hard, trying very hard not to shuffle. It’s all in the mind; I need to stride purposefully, pretend I am coping absolutely fine with your announcement of going away.

I’ll shuffle.

Honestly, who throws up at the merest tiniest little upheaval like their girlfriend going away. I’m an absolute lily.

‘Here you go,’ you say, placing the washing-up bowl on the floor beside the bed and climbing in beside me. ‘What does this mean for the insulin you’ve injected? You’d just eaten — does it mean you’ve got to eat something else to soak up the excess?’

I frown and cough to clear my throat. ‘Ohh, I don’t know. I’ve got a leaflet somewhere about sick days. I think it’s fine. I’ll test in a while and see from that.’

‘OK. As long as you’ve got that covered.’

‘Covered,’ I say, snapping my fingers and winking at you in a funky gesture of all-rightness.

‘Listen,’ you say, ‘Ivo. I’ve decided. I’m not going to go on this secondment.’

‘No, Mia, no, you can’t—’

‘It’s three months away, it’s too much. Especially, you know, if I’m not sure I— Well, I don’t even know if I want to do nursing any more.’

‘What? Why not?’

Your face grows unexpectedly sullen, and you hug your knees through the duvet.

‘I don’t know, it’s just — I’ve not met anyone who I can relate to. Everyone seems happy to do the robotic thing, treat all the patients like units.’ You rake your hand down your face, pummel your eye sockets with the heels of your hands. ‘I mean, I feel terrible saying it, because here I am, I’ve spent all this money, and you’re being amazingly patient about the whole thing, and I feel like I’m wasting your time.’

I gaze at you, trying to digest everything this means.

‘I keep thinking this is not what I went into nursing for. I wanted to make a difference for people, to treat people like humans. But if I ever say anything like that to any of the other students, they look at me like I’m insane. It’s so tiring. More tiring than the actual work.’

Now it’s my turn to stroke your back.

‘I just feel like I’ve been so naïve about it.’

‘Listen, I don’t think you’ve been naïve.’

‘I’ve been really naïve.’

‘OK, you’ve been really naïve. But all this stuff — at least it’s going to show you what you don’t want to do.’

‘But I don’t want to spend three months away from you, feeling like a leper.’

‘You’re not a leper, just because everyone else treats you like one. That’s their problem.’

‘But three months of it.’

‘It’s not for ever,’ I say. ‘Look, sleep on it. But I don’t want you to ditch your career just because I’ve got the constitution of an Oxo cube. It’s not fair on either of us.’

You pull in and arrange your limbs around me, delicately avoiding my stomach.

‘I’ll sleep on it.’

‘Good.’

‘If I go, are you going to be sick for the whole three months?’

‘I’ll be fine. I’ll work. I’ll watch the telly.’

‘You’ll use the time to do something amazing and creative, I know it.’

‘Yeah … I don’t know about that.’

Ffff — fuck it: press the buzzer.

Push the button to the click.

Ffffff — Jesus, the pain of it.

Ahhhh. Sssssurges.

Is this it? What if this is it? This could be it. This is definitely it.

No, no, ridiculoussss.

Oh, all I can think of is you. I love you, I love you, I love you, if this is the last thing I think I’m so, so sorry, and I love you.

Calmness. Positive thinking. Put it in context. Concentrate yourself away from pain. Walk away from it.

It’s not pain, it’s sensation. It’s–

Owowowow. It’s making me almost laugh with pain.

No, not laugh.

Sheila appears quickly at the door.

‘What’s the matter Ivo? Are you uncomfortable?’

‘Yes, yes, pain — just here—’

‘Down here, is it?’ She lays her hand flat on my lower belly, gently, gently.

‘Mm ff .’

‘Mm-hm.’ She steps back and checks my chart. ‘When did you last pop to the loo?’

‘Mm — two days.’

I wince again as another surge of pain flashes across my middle.

‘OK, OK lovey. Now, I want you to keep calm, OK? We’re going to get this all under control. Do you trust me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Dr Sood’s in this afternoon, so I’m going to fetch him to take a view.’

As I watch her leave, anxiety seizes my stomach, and the pain lashes back, another whipcrack, I don’t want to be alone — I don’t want to be alone if this is it.

It’s unbearable.

Positive thoughts.

Come on, come on. Think it through, carefully, calmly, calm, calm.

Is it pain anyway? Am I weak? How would I know? Maybe it’s not pain. Maybe I’ve never been in real pain. Maybe only the pain I’ve seen in other people has been the real thing, and I’ve only ever imitated their sucking of the teeth and wincing and cringing and sighing and huffing.

No, no. Calm it. I’m not in pain. Not real pain.

If I were dying, it would be the worst pain imaginable, surely. Is this the worst pain imaginable? No, it is not. What shall we call this? We could call it taken-abackness. It’s like when my knee clicks, or — or when my coat pocket catches on a door handle as I’m passing through and I might say ‘ow’, and I give off many of the signals of having been in pain. But it’s not pain, is it? It’s just being taken aback. Surprised.