Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'Oh I laugh all the time... when something is funny. But not when an Oik...'

'You callin' me an Oik?

'No, I am making a generalization about Oiks. So, please, try not to take it so personally...'

'But if you is making a sweeping general...'

'If you are making a sweeping generalization...' the Sikh said, correcting him.

'Know who my friend... sorry, colleague... thinks he is?' Shaved Head asked me. 'Bloody Henry Higgins'.

'And why can't the English teach their children how to speak?' the Sikh said.

'Shut it'.

It was like listening to an old married couple in the midst of the sort of comic bicker which had been going on, nonstop, for twenty years. But I also realized that they were carrying on this banter for my benefit - to divert me from my humiliation, and stop me feeling like the bad little girl who'd wet herself and was now in a helpless state.

When we reached the bathroom, the two orderlies helped me out of the wheelchair, then positioned me standing up against the sink and waited with me until a nurse arrived. Once she showed up, they took their leave. She was a large cheery woman in her late forties with an accent that hinted at Yorkshire. She gently lifted the drenched nightgown over my head.

'Get you cleaned up in no time', she said, while running a shallow warm bath. There was a mirror over the sink. I looked up and froze. The woman staring at me appeared to be a victim of domestic abuse. Her nose - shrouded in surgical plaster strips - had swollen to twice its normal size and had turned a slightly purplish colour. Both eyes had been blackened, and the areas around the eyelids were also discoloured and puffy.

'A nose injury always appears worse than it is', she said, immediately aware of my distress. 'And it always clears up very quickly. Give it three, four days, and you'll be back to your beautiful self'.

I had to laugh - not simply because I never considered myself beautiful... but also because, at the moment, I looked like I belonged in a freak show.

'American, are you?' she asked me.

I nodded.

'Never met an American I didn't like', she said. 'Mind you, I've only met two Yanks in my entire life. What you doing living here?'

'My husband's English'.

'Aren't you a smart girl', she said with a laugh.

She lowered me into the warm water and gently sponged me down, handing me the wash cloth when it came to the area around my crotch. Then she helped me back up, dried me off, and dressed me in a clean nightgown. All the while, she kept up a steady stream of trivial chat. A very English way of dealing with an uncomfortable situation... and one which I liked. Because, in her own gruff way, she was actually being gentle with me.

By the time she wheeled me back to the ward, the soggy sheets had been stripped away and replaced with clean linen. As she helped me into bed, she said, 'Don't you worry about anything, luv. You're going to be fine'.

I surrendered to the cool, starched sheets, relieved to be dry again. Nurse Howe came by, and informed me that a urine sample was needed.

'Been there, done that', I said laughing.

I eased myself out of bed again and into the bathroom, filling a vial with what little pee I still had on reserve. Then, when I was back in bed, another nurse came by and drew a large hypodermic of blood. Nurse Howe returned to tell me that Tony had just called. She'd informed him that Mr Hughes would be here at eight tonight, and suggested that he try to be at the hospital then.

'Your husband said he'd do his best, and was wondering how you were doing'.

'You didn't tell him anything about me wetting the...'

'Don't be daft', Nurse Howe said with a small laugh, and then informed me that I shouldn't get too cosy right now, as Mr Hughes (having been alerted to my condition) had ordered an ultrasound prior to his arrival. Alarm bells began to ring between my ears.

'Then he does believe that the baby's in danger?' I said.

'Thinking that does you no good...'

'I have to know if there's a risk that I might mis' -

'There is a risk, if you keep getting yourself in an anxious state. The high blood pressure isn't just due to physiological factors. It's also related to stress. Which is why you fell on your face last night'.

'But if I'm just suffering from high blood pressure, why is he ordering an ultrasound?'

'He just wants to rule out...'

'Rule out what?' I demanded.

'It's normal routine'.

This was hardly comforting. All during the ultrasound, I kept staring at the vague outline on the foetal monitor, asking the technician (an Australian woman who couldn't have been more than twenty-three) if she could see if anything was untoward.

'No worries', she said. 'You'll be fine'.

'But the baby... ?'

'There's no need to get yourself so...'

But I didn't hear the last part of that sentence, as the itching suddenly started again. Only this time, the area most affected was my midsection and my pelvis... exactly where the ultrasound gel had been smeared. Within the space of a minute, the itch was unbearable, and I found myself telling the technician that I needed to scratch my belly.

'Not a problem', she said, removing the large ultrasound wand which she had been applying to my stomach. Immediately, I began to tear at my skin. The technician looked on, wide-eyed.

'Take it slow, eh?' she said.

'I can't. It's driving me mental'.

'But you're going to hurt yourself... and the baby'

I pulled my hands away. The itching intensified. I bit so hard on my lip that it nearly bled. I snapped my eyes shut, but they began to sting. Suddenly, my face was awash with tears - the action of shutting my eyes provoking all the bruised muscles around the upper part of my face.

'Are you all right?' the technician asked.

'No'.

'Wait here for a sec', she said. 'And whatever you do, don't scratch your belly again'.

It seemed to take an hour for her to get back to me - though, when I glanced at the clock, only five minutes had elapsed. But by the time that the technician returned with Nurse Howe, I was gripping the sides of the bed, on the verge of screaming.

'Tell me...' Nurse Howe said. When I explained that I wanted to grate my stomach to pieces - or do anything else to make the itching stop - she examined me, then reached for a phone and issued some orders. She leaned over and clasped my arm.

'Help's on the way'.

'What are you going to do?'

'Give you something to stop the itch'.

'But say it's all in my head', I said, my voice verging towards mild hysteria.

'You think it's in your head?' Nurse Howe asked.

'I don't know'.

'If you're scratching like that, it's not in your head'.

'You sure?'

She smiled and said, 'You're not the first pregnant lady to get an itch like this'.

An assistant nurse arrived, pushing a tray of medication. She cleaned off the ultrasound gel. Then, using what looked like a sterile paint brush, she covered my stomach with a pink chalky substance - calamine lotion. It instantly alleviated the itch. Nurse Howe handed me two pills and a small cup of water.

'What are these?' I asked.

'A mild sedative'.

'I don't need a sedative'.

'I think you do'.

'But I don't want to be groggy when my husband gets here'.

'This won't make you groggy. It will just calm you down'.

'But I am calm'.

Nurse Howe said nothing. Instead she deposited the two pills in my open palm, and handed me a glass of water. I reluctantly downed the pills and allowed myself to be helped into a wheelchair and transported back to the ward.

Tony arrived just before eight with a few newspapers under his arm and a grim bunch of flowers. The pills had taken full effect - and though Nurse Howe didn't lie about the lack of grogginess, she didn't say anything about the way they deadened all emotional agitation and left me feeling flat, benumbed, muffled... but also very aware of the way Tony was trying to mask his disquiet at the state of me.