‘And if it doesn’t work?’ I asked in a weak, breathy voice.
‘Then we’ll all have a good cry, wheel you back to theatre and weed it out.’
That took my mind off cancer cells.
A nauseatingly vivid print bore down from the opposite wall. Abstract; a coastal scene. A man’s face was hidden between the beach and the cliff. If I could’ve climbed out of bed I’d have hurled it out the window. Except the windows didn’t open.
A nurse, May from Malaysia, introduced herself and exchanged the oxygen mask for little tubes, one for each nostril – like the ones Tom Hanks had when he was dying of AIDS in the movie Philadelphia. They were surprisingly comfortable and less claustrophobic than the mask.
‘Isn’t it great your daughter’s here?’ said May, scribbling notes on a chart.
‘Lydia?’ I whispered in the pathetic little voice that didn’t belong to me.
‘Is that her name? She certainly amused us with that chanting. I’m broad-minded though. Healing takes all shapes and forms. I thought it sounded lovely.’
‘She’s here?’
‘Yes, she said she’s just flown in from Sri Lanka to see you. She brought you these,’ May said, pointing at three candles in the shape of lotus flowers on the window ledge.
It hadn’t been a dream after all. Lydia had left a month ago with no mention of returning. She must have flown home to be with me. My eldest daughter cared. Overriding my pain-wracked body and fuzzy brain, a new sensation coursed through me. Joy. Pure joy.
Lydia was actually here, living and breathing in this hospital. Three candles sat on the window ledge to prove it.
‘Wait till you get home before you light them. We can’t have naked flames in here. Oh and she also brought this . . .’ May added, holding up an old lemonade bottle half filled with amber liquid.
‘Holy water,’ she said with an amused twinkle. ‘I’d recommend boiling it before putting it anywhere near your lips.’
‘Where—?’ I croaked.
‘I sent her downstairs for a coffee,’ said May. ‘She looked tired. She’ll be back soon.’
Lydia’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. A white shawl was draped around her shoulders. With her long sleeves and high-buttoned neck, she looked almost Victorian.
This was a very different young woman from Lydia the sex columnist, or the stroppy little girl who’d once confessed to mooning cars from a motorway footbridge. She’d been under the influence of an Unsuitable Friend at the time, but had admitted that shocking innocent motorists wasn’t devoid of thrills.
It was hard to imagine the saintly being at my bedside was related to the vibrant, opinionated little girl who loved climbing door frames and diving fearlessly off cliffs into Lake Taupo.
I scanned her face for familiar landmarks – the chicken pox scar above her right eyebrow, the memory of a dimple in her chin. I was saddened to notice her eye sockets were hollow, the lids almost hooded, reminiscent of Ghandi after one of his hunger strikes. Yet as she moved toward me she was obviously still the same young woman I loved so much. I’d never seen such tenderness in her eyes.
‘You’re too thin,’ I wheedled. It was exactly the sort of thing Mum would have said.
Lydia blinked, possibly to repress annoyance.
‘I love you,’ she said gently.
‘Love you too,’ I responded, feeling wretched for having started on the wrong footing. I should’ve been first to say ‘I love you.’ Or at least, ‘Thank you.’
‘Are you thirsty?’ she asked. I nodded. She passed me a paper cup from the bedside table and prodded a straw into my mouth. Slurping tepid water, I felt weak and helpless. Holding the cup steady, Lydia was the powerful one now, the nurturer.
As I sank back into the pillow, there were a hundred questions I wanted to ask. What had made her change her mind about staying in Sri Lanka? When had she made the booking to come home and who’d paid for it? How come she’d lost so much weight? Had she been sick, or had she deliberately starved herself?
More importantly, how much further did she have to go to prove she was a separate entity who in no way ‘belonged’ to me? I was willing to keep my end of the bargain and let her sail into adulthood on her terms. When would she realise she no longer had to rail against me so stubbornly?
The only sentence I had energy to piece together though was: ‘When did you get here?’ A stupid question, but thoughts kept slipping through my head like jelly.
‘A few hours ago. I came straight from the airport.’
The tubes around my legs hissed. My brain was enveloped in cloud again.
‘Can I chant some more?’ she asked quietly.
I wasn’t that keen. Not if it was making the nurses laugh. I needed them on our side rather than making jokes about us being a family of fruitcakes.
Mum and Dad had raised us Church of England, but I’d ticked ‘No Religion’ on the hospital form. When a pastoral caregiver had stuck her head around the door asking if I’d like to pray with her before they wheeled me off to theatre, I’d waved her off. Her morbid expression implied she’d spent too many hours in front of the mirror practising sympathetic looks.
Too weary to string words together, I nodded for Lydia to go ahead. May smiled and said she’d be back in a few minutes.
My daughter settled into the chair again, closed her eyes and drew a breath. I felt uneasy verging on irritated at first. Her words were utterly foreign. They could’ve meant anything. Nevertheless, there was benevolence in them. And they undoubtedly meant something to her. She believed they had significance, even power. I let the chanting wash over me like waves on a windswept beach . . . and fell asleep.
I could’ve slept for hours, days even, if they’d have let me. But May stirred me every half hour to record vital signs and unravel my dressings to listen for a pulse inside the new boob. As night dragged on she said I had low blood pressure and a fever. It was of no interest to me. All I wanted was sleep. Turning toward the darkened window I saw Lydia’s profile, straight backed and motionless. There was no need to reassure or entertain her. She was meditating.
The night dragged on for weeks. I hungered for sleep. Toward dawn I hallucinated about being a prisoner of war. Soldiers jabbed me with spears every time I drifted off. Yet May was such a dedicated nurse she was more angel than prison guard. Every time I turned to the window Lydia was still there, silent and unmoving, asking for nothing. The constancy of her presence gave me strength. All the doubts I’d had about her caring melted in the dry hospital air.
There’s no real time in hospital. The outside world peels away. Nursing shifts tick over. Rain scatters black diamonds across the window – not enough to put an end to the drought, though. Dark sky fades to grey.
The hospital shook itself awake. Brisk footsteps, clattering pans, and nurses’ chatter brought the day alive. Trolleys bearing patients, food and medical equipment rattled down the corridor outside my room.
A sullen girl from Eastern Europe plonked a breakfast tray in front of me. Cornflakes in a plastic bowl and a tea bag. The smallest task was barely possible now my arms and legs were out of action. Lydia raised the spoon to my lips, then held the cup while I slurped tea.
She looked weary. I urged her to go home and rest. She pressed her cheek against mine. Suddenly, I remembered the question I really wanted to ask. A simple one, but loaded.
‘How long are you here for?’
The tubes on my legs hissed and sighed. If she was planning to leave the next day my heart would shatter.
‘As long as you need me,’ she replied.
My head sank back in the pillow. That was all I’d wanted to hear.
In the days that followed, my room filled with flowers. I felt deeply grateful to family and friends who’d sent them. An outsized card signed by all the women in my yoga group featured, inexplicably, a Siamese kitten.