Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'Sorry?'

'George Bernard... Shaw', I said, and then fell into a serious torrent of laughter. The nurse gave me an even smile.

'It's Amanda Shaw actually'.

This struck me as the funniest thing I ever heard - and my laughter redoubled. Nurse Shaw said nothing - and, in fact, let me laugh like an idiot until I was spent.

'All right now?' she asked.

I returned to my balled-up posture on the bed. She nodded to one of the orderlies, who unfastened the straps that had been placed around me.

'Now if you wouldn't mind, Sally, these gentlemen need the bed, so...'

I lay motionless.

'All I'd like you to do is sit up and we'll take care of the rest'.

I didn't react.

'Sally, I'm going to ask you again. Will you please sit up, or should these gentlemen give you assistance?'

A pause. I could discern the threat lurking behind her even-tempered voice. I sat up.

'Good, very good', Nurse Shaw said. 'Now do you think you could get down off the bed?'

I hesitated. Nurse Shaw tilted her head slightly, and the two orderlies were on either side of me. One of them whispered, 'Come on, luv' - his voice uncomfortable, almost a little beseeching. I let them help me down, and on to the bed. Then, without a word, they returned to the gurney and steered it out of the room.

'Right then', Nurse Shaw said. 'Let me explain a few things about the unit...'

The unit.

'First of all, your baby is in the ward around ten paces down the corridor from here. So, you can have complete access to him whenever you want, twenty-four hours a day. And you can also bring him in here with you... though we do prefer if he sleeps in the ward, as it will allow you to get some much-needed rest'.

And it will allow you to keep him out of my clutches...

'Now, the next thing that's important to realize is that you're not a prisoner here. Because, unlike some individuals in the unit, you haven't been sectioned...'

Sectioned rhymes with dissection...

'So if you want to go for a walk, or leave the unit for whatever reason, there's no problem whatsoever. All we ask is that you inform the ward sister on duty that you're leaving...'

Because the front door's barred at all times... and also because we don't want some ga-ga dame like yourself running off with the baby... especially since you want to do him so much harm.

'Any questions?'

I shook my head.

'Fine. Now you'll find a hospital nightgown in the locker by the bed, so if you wouldn't mind changing into that, I'll see to it that your clothes are given a good wash'.

Because I spewed up all over them.

'And then, I gather it's been a while since you've eaten, so I'll have some food sent up straight away. But before all that, would you like to check in on your son?'

Long pause. Finally, I shook my head. Nurse Shaw was reasonableness itself.

'No problem whatsoever. But do remember - to see him, all you have to do is ring the call bell by the side of the bed'.

But why would he want to see me? Especially after I poisoned him. No wonder he always cried around me. From the start, he could sense my antipathy towards him.

'Oh, one final thing: the unit psychiatrist, Dr Rodale, will be in to see you in about two hours. All right?'

I can't wait.

'Well then, that's everything covered. So I'll leave you to get changed, and then I'll have one of my colleagues come back with lunch very shortly'.

Nurse Shaw left. I lay on the bed, not moving. Time went by. Nurse Shaw returned.

'Need some help changing, Sally?'

I sat up and started stripping off my clothes.

'That's good', Nurse Shaw said, and left.

The hospital nightgown stank of bleach and felt scratchy against the skin. I rolled up my street clothes into a big ball and shoved them into the locker. Then I crawled in between the equally scratchy sheets, and shut my eyes, and hoped for sleep. Instead, the door opened. A plumpish young nurse in her early twenties came in, Patterson on her name plate.

'G'day'

Australian.

'You all right?'

I said nothing.

'No worries. Lunch here'.

She was having a one-way conversation with a catatonic. But there was nothing I could do about it. I'd entered yet another facet of this strange landscape - in which mere speech suddenly seemed impossible, or somehow beyond my grasp.

The nurse placed the lunch tray on to the sliding table positioned next to the bed. She eased it over. I lay there and did nothing. The nurse smiled at me, hoping to get a response.

'Cat got your tongue? Tongue got your cat?'

I shut my eyes.

'All right, all right - it was a dumb joke', she said. 'But you've still got to eat. I mean, your roommate stopped eating for more than five days. And then...'

She cut herself off, as if she was about to reveal something she didn't want me to hear. Or, at least, not yet.

'But you're going to tuck into this lunch, aren't you? Or, at least, have a drink of something'.

I reached out for the tray. I took the glass of water. I brought it to my mouth. I drank a little while still in a prone position, which meant that some of the water ran down my face and on to the bedclothes. Then I put the glass back on the tray.

'Atta girl', the nurse said. 'Now how about a little tucker?'

I wanted to smile at the use of bush jargon in a South London hospital. But I couldn't do a damn miserable thing except lie there, feeling like a general all-purpose idiot.

'Tell you what. Why don't I just leave lunch here and come back in half an hour, eh? But, please, do yourself a favour and munch on something'.

But how can I eat when I can't eat. Don't you see that? Doesn't that make completely logical sense to you?

Half-an-hour later, she was back. And she didn't like the sight of the untouched lunch tray.

'Oh come on', she said, still sounding chirpy as hell. 'You've got to want something in your turn, don't you?'

No. I want nothing. Because I want to shrivel. Like a prune. Do everyone a huge service and disappear from view. Permanently.

She sat down on the bed and squeezed my arm.

'I know this is all really crap - and that you're in one of those "circumstances beyond your control" things. But a word of warning - the Doc is coming by to see you in about an hour. And she takes a really dim view of postnatal anorexia, eh? If you don't believe me, talk to your roomie when they bring her back from theatre. So do yourself a favour - and at least take a bloody bite out of the apple before the Doc shows up'.

But to bite an apple I have to bite an apple. Get it?

The doctor was a woman in her late forties. Very tall, very plain, with mid length brown hair sensibly cut, wearing a sensible suit under her white hospital coat, with sensible bi-focals on the end of her nose. Everything about her exuded high rationality - and a take-no-crap view of things. She immediately worried me.

'Ms Goodchild - Sally - I'm Dr Rodale, the unit's psychiatrist'.

She proffered her hand.

But to take your hand I have to take your hand.

She smiled tightly at my inability to make the necessary social gesture.

'Right then', she said, pulling up a chair next to my bed, then reaching into her briefcase for a clipboard and a pen. 'Let's try to make a start...'

It was she who made a start - asking me to verify my age, whether this was my first child, my first experience of depression and/or the first time I had ever gone silent like this. She also had gathered - from looking at Jack's chart - that his had been a traumatic delivery, and was wondering if this had impacted on my mental health... blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...

Now what was interesting to me about Dr Rodale's one-way interrogation was the briskness of her inquiry, and the way she ploughed on even when I refused to answer her. And it struck me that - though she may have been a shrink - she wasn't of the touchy-feely let's talk to your inner child school of psychotherapy. No, she was simply after the necessary information to work out the sort of treatment I needed.