Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

But as soon as I hauled myself out of the bath an hour later, the itch started again. Now I was genuinely spooked. I rubbed myself down with baby talc. It only intensified the discomfort. So I turned on the taps for another hot bath. Once more I scalded myself, and was consumed by itching as soon as I stepped out of it again.

I threw on a bathrobe. I called Margaret.

'I think I'm going out of my skull', I told her - and then explained the war taking place beneath my skin, and how I was worried it might all be in my mind.

'If you're really itching like that, it can't be psychosomatic', Margaret said.

'But there's nothing showing'.

'Maybe you have an internal rash'.

'Is there such a thing?'

'I'm no quack - so how the hell do I know. But if I were you, I'd stop being a Christian Scientist about this, and get to a doctor fast'.

I heeded Margaret's advice and called the local surgery. But my doctor was booked up for the afternoon so they found me an appointment with a Dr Rodgers: a dry-as-dust GP in his late forties, with thinning hair and a chilly bedside manner. He asked me to take off my clothes. He gave my skin a cursory inspection. He told me to get dressed again and gave me his diagnosis: I was probably having a sub-clinical allergic reaction to something I ate. But when I explained that I hadn't eaten anything out of the ordinary for the past few days, he said, 'Well, pregnancy always makes the body react in odd ways'.

'But the itching is driving me nuts'.

'Give it another twenty-four hours'.

'Isn't there anything you can prescribe to stop it?'

'If nothing is visible on the skin, not really. Try aspirin - or ibuprofen - if the pain gets too much'.

When I related all this to Margaret half an hour later, she became belligerent.

'Typical English quack. Take two aspirin, and stiffen your upper lip'.

'My usual GP is much better'.

'Then get back on the phone and demand to see her. Better yet, insist that she makes a house call. They will do that, if coerced'.

'Maybe he's right. Maybe it is some minor allergic reaction...'

'What is this? After just a couple of months in London, you're already adopting a "grin and bear it" attitude?'

In a way, Margaret was right. I didn't want to whine about my condition - especially as it wasn't my nature to get sick, let alone break out in manic itches. So I tried to busy myself by unpacking several boxes of books, and attempting to read a few back issues of the New Yorker. I resisted the temptation to call Tony at the paper and tell him just how bad I was feeling. Eventually I stripped off all my clothes again and started scratching my skin so hard that I actually began to bleed around my shoulders. I took refuge in the bathroom. I let out a scream of sheer, unequivocal frustration and pain as I waited for the bath to fill. After scalding myself for the third time, I finally called Tony at the paper, saying, 'I think I'm in real trouble here'.

'Then I'm on my way'.

He was back within the hour. He found me shivering in the bath, even though the water was still near boiling. He got me dressed. He helped me into the car and drove straight across Wandsworth Bridge, then up the Fulham Road, and parked right opposite the Mattingly Hospital. We were inside the Casualty Department within moments - and when Tony saw that the waiting room was packed, he had a word with the triage nurse, insisting that, as I was pregnant, I should be seen straight away.

'I'm afraid you'll have to wait, like everyone else here'.

Tony tried to protest, but the nurse was having none of it.

'Sir, please sit down. You can't jump the queue unless...'

At that very moment, I supplied the unless, as the constant itch suddenly transformed into a major convulsion. Before I knew what was happening, I pitched forward and the world went black.

When I came to, I was stretched out in a steel hospital bed, with several intravenous tubes protruding from my arms. I felt insanely groggy - as if I had just emerged from a deep narcotic sleep. For a moment or two, the thought struck me: where am I? Until the world came into focus and I found myself in a long ward - one of a dozen or so women, enveloped by tubes, respiratory machines, foetal monitors and other medical paraphernalia. I managed to focus on the clock situated at the end of the ward: 3.23 pm... with a greyish light visible behind the thin hospital curtains. 3.23pm Tony and I had arrived at the hospital around eight last night. Could I have been out cold for... what?.. seventeen hours'?

I managed to summon up enough strength to push the call-button by the side of the bed. As I did so, I involuntarily blinked for an instant and was suddenly visited by a huge wave of pain around the upper half of my face. I also became aware of the fact that my nose had been heavily taped. The area around my eyes also felt bruised and battered. I pressed the call-button even harder. Eventually, a small Afro-Caribbean nurse arrived at my bedside. When I squinted to read her name tag - Howe - my face felt pulverized again.

'Welcome back', she said with a quiet smile.

'What happened?'

The nurse reached for the chart at the end of the bed and read the notes.

'Seems you had a little fainting spell in reception. You're lucky that nose of yours wasn't broken. And you didn't lose any teeth'.

'How about the baby?'

A long anxious silence as Nurse Howe scanned the notes again.

'No worries. The baby's fine. But you... you are a cause for concern'.

'In what way?'

'Mr Hughes, the consultant, will see you on his rounds this evening'.

'Will I lose the baby?'

She scanned the chart again, then said, 'You're suffering from a high blood pressure disorder. It could be pre-eclampsia - but we won't know that until we've done some blood work and a urine test'.

'Can it jeopardize the pregnancy?'

'It can... but we'll try to get it under control. And a lot is going to depend on you. You'd better be prepared to live a very quiet life for the next few weeks'.

Great. Just what I needed to hear. A wave of fatigue suddenly rolled over me. Maybe it was the drugs they'd been giving me. Maybe it was a reaction to my seventeen hours of unconsciousness. Or maybe it was a combination of the two, coupled with my newfound high blood pressure. Whatever it was, I suddenly felt devoid of energy. So drained and de-vitalized that I couldn't even summon the strength to sit myself up. Because I had an urgent, desperate need to pee. But before I could articulate this need - before I could ask for a bedpan or assistance to the nearest toilet - the lower part of my body was suddenly enveloped in a warm, expansive pool of liquid.

'Oh fuck...', I said, my voice loud, desperate.

'It's okay' Nurse Howe said. Reaching for her walkie-talkie, she summoned assistance. Within moments, two large male orderlies were by the bed. One of them had a shaved head and sported an earring; the other was a thin wiry Sikh.

'So sorry, so sorry...' I managed to mutter as the two orderlies helped me sit up.

'Don't you worry about it, darling', the shaved head said. 'Most natural thing in the world'.

'Never happened to me before', I said as they lifted me off the sodden mattress and put me in a wheelchair. My hospital nightgown was stuck against my body.

'First time, really?' Shaved Head asked. 'Ain't you had a charmed life. Take my mate here. He pisses his pants all the time, don't you?'

'Don't listen to my colleague', the Sikh said. 'He needs to talk rubbish'.

'Colleague?' Shaved Head said. 'Thought I was your mate'.

'Not when you accuse me of pants pissing', the Sikh said, starting to wheel me down the ward. Shaved Head walked alongside him, their repartee nonstop.

'That's the problem with you Sikhs - no sense of humour...'