That must mean pretty much everything in my entire body.
My body is not my own. I don’t understand it.
I don’t know how the fucking thing works.
When Dr Sood turned round and started talking to me about creatinine levels and dialysis and–
I didn’t know what a dialysis machine was. I mean, I’d collected for a dialysis machine they had an appeal for on some children’s TV show. Probably 1984. I got it into my head that a dialysis machine had flashing lights and numbers, but I think I was mixing up the dialysis machine with the totalizer they had on the show. Every time they reached a new landmark, a whole load of bulbs would light up, and the number would get higher.
My dialysis machine was dreary off-white. Perhaps I was given exactly the one I collected for, thirty years before. It looked like it was made in 1984.
What’s the shelf-life of a dialysis machine? How many different people’s blood had chugged through mine? Now mine was chugging through, and it was cleaning out the creatinine.
I think it was, anyway.
Cleaning out all the bad, the build-ups.
I imagined it like the build-ups of acid in my calves when I’d been running around.
Ahh — ah, my God. There it is.
I nearly made myself cry.
I haven’t cried for–
There are some things that you can’t — they’re unexpected. I haven’t thought about this for years. One of the clearest memories I have of my dad.
Acid cramps in the calves.
That’s it:
Calves
I’m lying, crying on the floor in the lounge of our house, on that horrible old white-and-brown swirly carpet. I’m on my back, and my dad has a hold of my leg, and he’s kneading the calf between his thumbs, and rubbing it gently with his palm.
Up, down, up.
Rub it better, little man. They’re just growing pains.
The agony of it. The worst ache I’d felt to date. And I could not get away from it. It was inside me, and I didn’t know what was causing it.
It’ll pass, don’t worry. It’ll pass.
I never wanted him to let go.
I kept the crying up for as long as I could, but I think he could tell when the pain had subsided. But he didn’t send me away. He patted the sofa beside him, and I hopped up.
Ha; ha; ha.
Fucking hell, this is — this is my heart. Is this my heart? A heart attack? No chest pains.
What if it was?
Push the button?
She should have sided with me, Laura.
Fucking— I was the one she should have supported. Her own brother.
She made her choice.
Trying to have it both ways now.
No.
Fuck, fuck, this is it. Fuck.
Push the button. Where’s the button?
There. Did that push?
Did that click?
There. I set that buzzer off down the hall. I think that’s what I did, with the button. Too late to go back now. Can’t unpush.
How many die of politeness?
C, C, corpse.
Body. My body.
No.
‘Hello, you all right?’
Sheila.
‘I’m — I can’t—’
‘Trouble breathing? OK, wait a minute. I’ll be back in a tick, OK?’
She knows. It was the right thing to do. Push the button. Not making a fuss.
‘Here we go.’ She wheels an oxygen canister before her, and carries a mask. Serious shit. Big deal, big deal. ‘OK, I’m just going to get you to sit up more here. And then we can get you some oxygen.’
‘I’m—’
‘Don’t talk, now. Let’s get you sitting up. Right, now, if you hold this mask. I’m just going to—’
Small olive-skinned hands fumble with knobs on the canister.
‘OK — I think that’s — can you just give me that?’ She takes the mask back off me and looks at it. ‘No, it’s — this is the one that’s been playing up a bit.’ She fumbles more. ‘Sorry — sorry, wait a minute. I’ll go and fetch Jef to give us a hand.’
She walks briskly out, and then comes back to deactivate my buzzer, and then walks briskly out.
No panic, now, no. She’s on the case. Sheila on the case. Trained and able.
Come on, come on.
Your hand in mine, mine in yours. Tight, tight.
Enthusiastic you.
Yeah, you can do it.
I can do it.
Of course you can.
Of course I can.
This is going to happen.
Sheila again, trailed by Jef.
‘—it’s been playing up, and I think it’s to do with the valve at the top. Because it’s not been right since—’
They fuss and meddle with it a bit, alternately taking the mask and trying it at their own noses.
Sheila looks down at me. ‘Sorry about this. How are you doing? Can’t clear your lungs properly?’ I shake my head. ‘It’s all right, I’ll get the other one if we can’t — oh, wait, oh there we go.’
Jef passes me the mask. Triangle of rubbery plastic over my nose and mouth.
‘There now,’ says Sheila. ‘Hold that to your face, OK? Don’t worry, it’ll pass, it’ll pass. I want you to concentrate on getting your breathing down, to slow down, so it’s more comfortable, OK? Breathe normally there, don’t try any great gulps, and just take in the oxygen. It’s going to help you.’
Jef gives me a small smile and leaves.
‘There we go,’ says Sheila. ‘Keep it on your nose and mouth, all right? You need to make sure you’ve got a good bit of oxygen going into your system.’
Through the door, I hear the woman in the next room has started up her groans again.
Uhhhh.
‘Oh, hello,’ says Sheila, ‘Old Faithful’s started up again.’ She smiles at me.
‘I’m, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Causing all this bother.’
You’re all right,’ she says, thrusting her hands into her tunic pockets, and balancing absently on one foot like a young girl. ‘I’ve got to earn my wages somehow, haven’t I? OK, I’m just going to look in on her now. Keep that mask on until you’re feeling better. I’ve reset your buzzer, but press it again if you want anything, OK? Don’t hesitate. That’s what it’s there for.’
Come on now, baby.
What have you got to say to me?
What would you say?
Think calm. Get yourself into a good state of mind, and it’ll come. Easy.
Easy. Ease.
D
Diaphragm
‘WHO CAN SPELL “diaphragm” for me?’
Mr Miller stands at the front of the class in his weird blue blazer with its six gold buttons, and those ever-present musty trousers.
‘What sort of blazer’s that?’ mutters Mal to me and Kelvin. ‘It’s like it’s from the nineteenth century or something. Who does he think he is? King Dickface the Turd?’
Kelvin and I crease up laughing. Dickface the Turd.
‘Kelvin!’ says Miller. ‘Well done, you’ve just volunteered to spell it out on the board. Come up here.’
Kelvin reluctantly leaves his lab stool with a wooden creak and shuffles up to the front.
I look at Mal and do an eye-roll. ‘Miller likes to pick on Kelvin. You probably want to get used to this.’
‘OK,’ says Miller, handing him the chalk. ‘Off you go. Oh, and I forgot to mention. Anyone who gets it wrong gets a detention.’