Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

What a grey little man he was - and how I so suddenly envied her such predictability, such ongoing stability (while well knowing that appearances are always deceptive). When Nurse Patterson arrived during the visit with my sleeping pills, I took them at once, without prompting. Because I didn't want to watch this happy scene anymore.

Once again, the sedatives did their wondrous chemical work and I slept for a massive eleven hours, waking up just after six-fifteen the next morning. God, how fogged in I felt. Because these pills didn't really induce sleep. Rather, they clubbed you over the head and left you stupefied. It took me a good twenty minutes to find the equilibrium necessary to stand up and pull myself (and my feed trolley) to the bathroom.

The day followed a similar pattern to the previous days. The Scottish nurse offered me breakfast. I remained silent. Agnes tried to engage me in conversation. I remained silent (even though I was pleased to see that a degree of mental clarity was coming back to her). She went off to play with her son Charlie. I squandered the morning staring at the ceiling, and wondering why I was squandering the morning like this, and also having no energy to do anything but squander the morning like this.

Then it was lunchtime - and I didn't eat lunch, except courtesy of the tube in my arm. Then it was three pm, and Dr Rodale walked in. Like actors in a bad play, we knew our prosaic lines off by heart. Or, at least, she knew her lines, whereas I simply had to maintain my weak, silent stance. The interview went according to form... with the good doctor making her usual noises about the increasing gravity of my situation, and then finally saying, 'I will be calling your husband at his office this afternoon to discuss your situation and the options open to us'.

Tony arrived around eight that evening. This time he did kiss me on the cheek. He did pull up a chair close to me. He did take my hand. And said, 'You have got to start eating'.

I just looked at the wall.

'Your doctor - Rodale, isn't it? - she called me at the paper and said, if you didn't start consuming solid food, she wanted to consider ECT. As in electro-convulsive-therapy. As in shock treatment. She said it was the best way to bring you out of whatever place you are right now - but she'd need my consent to do it'.

Silence. He wasn't looking at me again.

'I don't want to give my consent. But I also don't want to see you continue in this state. So' - he leaned forward ' - I'd snap out of this if I were you'.

I turned away.

'Sally, please...'

I pulled the covers back over my head. Oh why do I pull infantile stuff like this? Suddenly, he pulled the covers off me. Looking me straight on, he hissed, 'Don't force my hand'.

Then he left. And I found myself thinking, He'll sign the papers in a New York minute. And then I can assume my new role as Electro-Girl. Juice me up, Scotty...

After he was gone, Agnes got out of bed and walked over to where I lay. Her gait was still hesitant. So too the focus of her eyes. But she sounded lucid.

'It's Sally, right?'

I didn't answer.

'Well, listen up, American. My husband didn't want to sign the papers either. I mean, he begged me for a week to try to come round and eat something and act like I knew where I was. But I didn't. And when I kept tearing the feeding tube out of me... well, it left them with no choice. The night before they began the therapy, my husband sat by me and started crying, pleading with me for one last time to eat something, anything. But...'

Pause.

'... the next morning, I pulled the tube out again. And that evening, they started the ECT'.

Pause.

'Just had my fifth yesterday. Guess it's doing some good, 'cause I'm eating again, and I'm able to play again a bit with Charlie. But...'

Pause.

'... they say you only suffer short term memory loss. But that's not what I've been suffering. Kind of more like an entire section of my brain's been wiped. And I keep trying to find it - keep rooting around for it. But...'

Pause.

'... know what I think? I think all that electricity ends up frying it right out of you. Burns it to a crisp. The doctor keeps saying, once the treatment's over, it'll all come back again. But I don't believe her. Not for a moment. 'Cause' -

Pause.

'Listen to me. You can avoid this. You can. Just one mouthful of food, eh? Just one. Here...'

She pulled over the table, on which sat the untouched dinner tray of food. She reached for a bread roll and pulled off a piece of it.

'... just a piece of bread. I'll even butter it for you'.

She did just that. And put it next to my face. I turned away. She used her spare hand to pull my head back.

'Come on, you can do this'.

I turned away again. She forced me back. I turned away. Suddenly she put the roll directly against my mouth. I turned away. She yanked me back, her grip tight now. This time, she forced the bread against my teeth. Which is when I snapped, and brushed it away, and spat in her face. Without stopping to think, she suddenly backhanded me across my face. The shock was ferocious. So too was the pain. And I heard myself shouting, 'Nurse!'

Nurse Patterson came into the room.

'So... you can talk after all'.

Of course, I retreated into silence for the rest of the night. Of course, I didn't touch the dinner tray. Of course, I took my knock-out pills like a good girl, and then waited for sleep to club me. But when I woke the next morning... no, I wouldn't say that the fog had lifted, or that I was suddenly feeling reborn, rejuvenated, or at one with myself and the world. On the contrary, I still suffered from post-sedative fuzz and a general feeling of all-purpose toxicity, combined with a strange weariness... even after another eleven hours of unconsciousness. But, for the first time in days, I actually felt hungry. And when the Scottish nurse brought in the breakfast tray, I mumbled two words, 'Thank you'.

This made her look up at me, a little startled, but rather pleased as well.

'You're most welcome. Think you can eat?'

I nodded. She helped me sit up and rolled the table over the bed, and set up the tray, even opening the paper napkin for me, like a waiter in a restaurant.

'Could you drink some tea, perhaps?' she said.

I nodded again.

'I'll be right back'.

Eating was not an easy process after nearly a week. But I did manage to ingest half a bowl of porridge. It was slow going - and, once or twice, I felt distinctly queasy. But I kept at it. Because I knew I had to.

The nurse poured me a cup of tea and looked on as I ate, beaming. I realized that, to her, any patient that turned a corner was a success story.

'Don't worry about finishing everything', she said. 'You're doing grand'.

Halfway through breakfast, Agnes stirred awake. Like me, she too was on heavy knock-out pills, so it also took her a moment or two to work out where she was, and what she was doing here. But then, gradually, the world came into focus again - and she caught sight of me hovering over the breakfast tray, fork in hand.

To her credit, she said nothing. She just gave me a small nod, then got up and went to the bathroom. When she came back, she came over to my bed and said, 'Sorry about last night'.

'It's okay', I said, just about getting the word out.

'How did breakfast go down?'

I shrugged.

'That's how I felt too - first time I ate after... Then again, the food's such crap around here...'

I managed a little smile.

What I found difficult, though, was the actual act of talking. I could get a word or two out, but then something seized my larynx, refusing to let go.

'Don't sweat it', Agnes said when she saw me struggling. 'It takes time to come back'.

When lunch arrived, I managed to eat half a chicken leg and the white goo that they passed off as mashed potatoes, and a portion of perma-boiled carrots that had a decidedly plastic texture. But it was important that I make a good show of my lunch - because Dr Rodale was due in shortly - and I wanted to be absolutely certain that my rediscovered appetite was noted for the record.