James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

Sheila looks at me, unembarrassed, and with calm collectedness. ‘I know, I know, lovey, I know. I can see it. And is there no way you want to talk about these things? Share the problems? I’m all ears.’

She puts her fingers behind her lobes and dinks them out sideways.

Silly.

Silly woman.

‘Listen,’ she says, ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I ought to tell you these accumulated problems would benefit from — well, if you’re still dead set against the morphine solution …’

‘Ah, I don’t know any more.’

‘Or if you didn’t want to go there, at least a little bit of massage, and maybe some gentle exercise.’

‘Mm.’

‘Nothing too strenuous, just something to take your mind off things. And we’ve got a woman who’ll come and do that for you — Karen. You’ll like her, she’s lovely. I can book you in for one, if you like? I’d like to see you up and about more, please.’

‘Mm.’

‘Or there’s a Reiki healer? Some of our residents get a lot from that; the woman comes in and realigns your chakras for you.’

She does an admirable job of saying it seriously, though I suspect at the centre she thinks it’s nonsense. I shake my head. No, no.

‘No, I didn’t think that would be quite your bag, somehow.’ I give her a smile. ‘Honestly. You’ve got to help yourself as much as you can, and I’m not saying that because I don’t want to do it myself. I can do whatever you want. But you’ve got to help yourself.’

‘Mm.’

‘Promise me you’ll at least think about it.’

‘OK.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Kidneys

I’VE PUT OFF making this call for as long as I can.

I must have picked up the phone fifty times today, and put it down without pressing a single digit.

Now I’ve pressed them all and it’s ringing.

It’s six weeks and four days since we split up, and we’ve spoken — what? — four times? And each of those calls has stuttered to a halt in the end. You need space. You don’t know if it’s worth it. At any rate, you need to concentrate. You don’t know if it’s even possible to keep a relationship going and get through what you’re trying to get through.

‘So many of the other women on the course have split up from their partners,’ you said. ‘I sometimes wonder if nursing and a private life mix at all.’

And in each of our halting conversations, with a leaden heart and closed throat, I’ve said: ‘Can you tell me absolutely that there’s no hope of anything happening at all? Ever?’

And that’s what’s left those long static silences. You haven’t been able to kill it completely.

There has always been that finest thread of hope.

The finest thread that I’m about to snap for ever.

‘Hello?’

Heartbreaking warmth in your voice when you pick up. You’re showing a guarded pleasure from seeing my name light up on your phone.

‘Hello,’ I say, simply. And then I realize I’ve not really thought this through. What can I say? ‘I’m — I’m sorry for ringing you.’

‘No, it’s nice to hear from you.’

‘How are you doing?’

‘Ah, not brilliant, if I’m honest. I’ve got my final exam coming up, so I’m flat-out busy and completely stressed. It’s a bit of a classic deadly combination.’

‘It’s never-ending,’ I say.

‘But it’s good to have a break. I was quite hoping you might phone.’

Oh — don’t be nice to me. Don’t. I don’t need hope now, when I’m about to throw the whole thing away.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘I–I wanted to say something, but I don’t really know—’

‘OK …’

‘I’ve got some — some shit news from the doctor’s.’

‘Oh no, what?’

Think quickly. I need to get this out there quicker — because you think I might be dying now, and I don’t know, I don’t know if I am dying or something–

‘I’ve been trying to get to grips with a few things since — you know, lately — and I’ve been for a bunch of check-ups. I’ve been referred to the renal consultant.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘I had the appointment this morning.’

‘And what—’

‘He says I’ve got high levels of — creatinine? In my blood.’

Silence. I think for a moment you might hang up.

I think you might say: Serves you right.

I think you might say: I told you so.

You say: ‘Shit.’

‘He says there are signs of kidney failure.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? I could have come along with you. What—’

‘I’m sorry for phoning you, I just — I’ve been such a dick. You’re the only person I know who I could talk to about it. And you’re a nurse, so I thought you might know something.’

You sigh heavily, and you sound much more shocked than I thought you would. The tiny ember of hope still glows in the middle of all this suffocating ash.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ you say. ‘Is it a stable result? Did they test a full day’s samples?’

‘He was talking about Stage 2 kidney failure.’

‘Ivo, why didn’t you say anything? You must have been beside yourself.’

‘I didn’t think you’d want to know. You said you don’t need to watch someone else fuck themselves up.’

‘How could you think that?’

‘Kidney failure. Exactly what you said.’

‘I would never turn you away like that,’ you say. ‘Come on, you know that.’

I heave an exhausted sigh. ‘I don’t know if I do any more.’

‘Listen,’ you say, slotting into a practical gear, ‘I’ve got a whole load of notes about renal care. Let me dig them out. I might be able to find some pamphlets I can send you that explain it all.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, touched that you might care. ‘I’m — I’m really—’

‘Sorry, yeah,’ you say.

‘OK, lovey, here we go.’ Sheila’s got a bottle and a spoon. ‘Nothing to it. What I’m going to do is measure out an amount in here—’ she waves the spoon ‘—and then you’ll take that as you might some cough medicine, OK?’

I’m scared. I want you. I want your arms around me. Where’s my blanket? I want my blanket. Should I ask now?

‘And you’ll start to feel the benefits more or less straight away. All right? So by the time the local news comes on the telly, you should be feeling more together.’

‘They should give this to everyone who watches the local news.’ Weak smile.

Sheila laughs.

I want you — I want you to tell me. Am I doing the right thing? If I take this, I’m not coming back.

Fetch my blanket. It’s in the cupboard, isn’t it?

I want to ask Sheila. I should ask her. I’m not sure about this. But you can’t even ask doctors, can you? They’re not allowed to tell you what to do. You’ve got to decide for yourself.

Your health in your hands.

But I’m not the one who’s been through seven years of medical school.

‘I don’t know,’ I say to her.

‘What’s that, lovey?’

‘I don’t know if I want to. Do — do you think I should?’

‘Yeah,’ she smiles. ‘I’d take anything that’s going.’

Oh. She is allowed to tell me what to do. Is she?

‘I just — I don’t want to get addicted. I know, it’s stupid. But — I’ve been addicted, sort of. I mean, why does it have to be down to me? You’ve got all’ — breathe — ‘all these people who are supposed to help you and — and all they say is, “I don’t know, what do you think?”’