James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

And anyway, they don’t let you feel pain these days. They give you drugs. Like they gave Old Faithful drugs. They don’t let you feel the pain.

Thank God.

Fff ff . ‘Yeah, he’s in here—’

Sheila enters the room all businesslike, Dr Sood in tow.

‘Good afternoon,’ says Sood. ‘How are things with you today? I gather you’ve been in a little discomfort?’

‘Severe headaches,’ says Sheila, ‘shortness of breath, anxiety over — a number of personal matters. And sharp abdominal pains.’

‘Mm.’ He sets his head fractionally on one side. ‘How’s your vision?’

‘Light hurts.’

‘Breathing is still troubling you, yes?’

‘I cough a lot.’

Nice Dr Sood. He’s calming in a rapid sort of manner. He talks in an efficient, quick and minimal way. His mouth-clicks form an integral part of his speech pattern. To-the-point, but kindly enough.

He turns to Sheila. ‘Any general feeling of panic, of distress or anything like this?’

‘We’ve been using oxygen for a few days,’ says Sheila. ‘Regular shortness of breath.’

‘Any improvements?’

‘Nothing substantial.’

This seems to push him into some kind of decision.

‘Hm. I’m wondering whether we should be administering relief for these symptoms. We can take care of the pain here in your abdomen. But we also have to consider any sort of panicky anxieties you have been experiencing. We could be administering a morphine solution, which should take care of the worst of it, and give you a little more space within yourself to control these symptoms better.’

‘Morphine? I’m not ready for that, am I?’ I look at Sheila. ‘I don’t think I’m that bad.’

‘Well, one of the things we are watching in a case like yours is the contamination of the bloodstream with toxins such as potassium, do you understand? And the build-up of toxins often leads to an increase in anxiety and irritation in the patient, and, well, if the symptoms are as we believe them to be, then you might find that a mild solution can help you—’

‘No, thank you. No.’

I’m surely not far gone enough for morphine, am I?

No, No. I’m not dead yet.

‘I just need a little something to — take the edge off.’ I look up at Sheila, hopefully. ‘Just a little something.’

‘Well, as I say, we can get you some relief for your abdominal pains, which we can probably put down to a spot of trapped wind in your intestine. Sharp, sudden pain.’

As he says it, another flash of pain darts its way through my belly.

‘Trapped wind? Seriously, it’s ffff — it’s really really bad. I’m sweating here, I’m sweating. It’s — ffff …’

‘It can get like that, honestly,’ says Sheila. ‘And it’s to be expected. I’m going to get you something to relieve that, OK?’

‘OK. Yes, please.’

‘And you do not want the morphine solution?’ says Sood.

‘No. No thanks.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘I don’t want to go there. I–I don’t want to.’

‘Addiction is not an issue, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s entirely up to you and how you would like to handle your symptoms, but just so long as you are aware of the options available to you. I’d like to register with you the fact that I think a solution of morphine would help you along, ease your symptoms to a point where you’ll be in a good deal fairer fettle than you are now. So I’d like you to bear it in mind going forward.’

The two of them depart, Sheila with a little wink, Sood off to the patient he had come to see in the first place. I’m left here with his final words in mind. Going forward.

Going forward?

To what?

Tell me this is not trapped wind. Trapped wind can’t be this bad. It can’t. Old Faithful’s dead, and I’m here wriggling around with trapped wind. I really hope it isn’t trapped wind.

No, I really hope it is trapped wind.

Sheila returns alone, rotating a small rattley white box round and about in her hands, trying to find the best way of opening it.

‘Here we go now. Don’t worry, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before. Fact of life, isn’t it? We’ve got some suppositories here, joy of joys. They’ll encourage the muscles in your lower intestine to start working a bit to try and help you go to the toilet, all right?’

‘Right.’

‘Would you like to pop this in yourself? I mean, I can—’

‘No, no, fine. I’ll do it.’

‘Here you go. If you head over to the toilet, unwrap it, pop it in pointy-end first, and wash your hands after.’

She helps me down from my bed and across the room — and I need it.

I need the help.

Jesus.

I try and take in a breath but fail. Cough more, but stop short in pain.

‘Oh, you’re all right, lovey. Not at the end of your tether yet, OK? You’re doing very well. Now, you might want to run it under the tap a bit first. I’ll be standing out here, so give me a shout if you need me, won’t you? Don’t be embarrassed. Easier said than done, I know.’

I shuffle into the tiny bathroom, and turn and face the mirror. My eyes have yellowing whites, red round the rim.

This is it. Another intestinal episode. The day I thought I was going to die, and it was just a tummy ache.

I am pathetic.

Sheila takes me by the arm as I emerge from the toilet, and bears me over to the bed. An old man.

‘There you go,’ she says, tenderly. She fetches me a small paper cup of pills and pours me a glass of water. I throat the pills and shift them with water, shake my head to persuade them down. ‘That’s it,’ she says, and smiles. I sit back on my pillows, which she fluffs up behind me. She picks up your blanket from the end of the bed.

My blanket.

‘Here you go, lovey.’ She drapes it round my shoulders. It feels heavy and comforting, like a hug. ‘Just imagine those pills working their way up to your head and spreading their magic. And that suppository freeing things up in the opposite direction.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Thanks.’

‘Now bear in mind you might be taken a bit by surprise at how suddenly it works, all right? So I’ve left a pan by your bed in case you don’t make it. And I don’t want you getting all anxious about that. It’s there to be used, so use it if you need it, OK?’

‘OK.’

She looks at me and tuts to herself. ‘Listen, lovey, I’m not here to twist your arm, but are you sure you’re doing the right thing about the morphine solution? It’s really very mild, and I don’t want to see you distressed. There’s absolutely no need for that.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I need to stop being pathetic. Get my mind under control.’

‘Well, that’s what the morphine would do; give you a bit of space upstairs.’

‘Like you say, let it go, get a bit of perspective. I can do this. Mind over matter. Just — are you sure, are you totally sure there’ll be no visitors?’

‘Everyone’s aware, all the checks are in place. I’ve left strict instructions with Jackie to make sure everyone signs in at reception, all right, lovey?’

‘All right. Thank you.’

‘Only … do me a favour, if you want the morphine, go ahead and take it. You don’t get extra points for style in this game.’

‘No, I know.’

‘Now, have you got everything? How are you progressing on your alphabet?’

‘I’m up to the letter I.’

‘I? Well, it’s staring you in the face, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve thought about intestines.’

‘No: insulin.’

‘God. Is that an acceptable part of the body?’

‘Yes! It’s a hormone, isn’t it? The main thing I remember about it is that it’s produced in your pancreas by the islets of Langerhans .’ She draws her arms out wide in a romantic gesture. ‘It might be my favouritely named part of the body, the islets of Langerhans … And it comes under I. How about that?’