No, not laugh.
Sheila appears quickly at the door.
‘What’s the matter Ivo? Are you uncomfortable?’
‘Yes, yes, pain — just here—’
‘Down here, is it?’ She lays her hand flat on my lower belly, gently, gently.
‘Mmff.’
‘Mm-hm.’ She steps back and checks my chart. ‘When did you last pop to the loo?’
‘Mm — two days.’
I wince again as another surge of pain flashes across my middle.
‘OK, OK lovey. Now, I want you to keep calm, OK? We’re going to get this all under control. Do you trust me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Dr Sood’s in this afternoon, so I’m going to fetch him to take a view.’
As I watch her leave, anxiety seizes my stomach, and the pain lashes back, another whipcrack, I don’t want to be alone — I don’t want to be alone if this is it.
It’s unbearable.
Positive thoughts.
Come on, come on. Think it through, carefully, calmly, calm, calm.
Is it pain anyway? Am I weak? How would I know? Maybe it’s not pain. Maybe I’ve never been in real pain. Maybe only the pain I’ve seen in other people has been the real thing, and I’ve only ever imitated their sucking of the teeth and wincing and cringing and sighing and huffing.
No, no. Calm it. I’m not in pain. Not real pain.
If I were dying, it would be the worst pain imaginable, surely. Is this the worst pain imaginable? No, it is not. What shall we call this? We could call it taken-abackness. It’s like when my knee clicks, or — or when my coat pocket catches on a door handle as I’m passing through and I might say ‘ow’, and I give off many of the signals of having been in pain. But it’s not pain, is it? It’s just being taken aback. Surprised.
And anyway, they don’t let you feel pain these days. They give you drugs. Like they gave Old Faithful drugs. They don’t let you feel the pain.
Thank God.
Fffff. ‘Yeah, he’s in here—’
Sheila enters the room all businesslike, Dr Sood in tow.
‘Good afternoon,’ says Sood. ‘How are things with you today? I gather you’ve been in a little discomfort?’
‘Severe headaches,’ says Sheila, ‘shortness of breath, anxiety over — a number of personal matters. And sharp abdominal pains.’
‘Mm.’ He sets his head fractionally on one side. ‘How’s your vision?’
‘Light hurts.’
‘Breathing is still troubling you, yes?’
‘I cough a lot.’
Nice Dr Sood. He’s calming in a rapid sort of manner. He talks in an efficient, quick and minimal way. His mouth-clicks form an integral part of his speech pattern. To-the-point, but kindly enough.
He turns to Sheila. ‘Any general feeling of panic, of distress or anything like this?’
‘We’ve been using oxygen for a few days,’ says Sheila. ‘Regular shortness of breath.’
‘Any improvements?’
‘Nothing substantial.’
This seems to push him into some kind of decision.
‘Hm. I’m wondering whether we should be administering relief for these symptoms. We can take care of the pain here in your abdomen. But we also have to consider any sort of panicky anxieties you have been experiencing. We could be administering a morphine solution, which should take care of the worst of it, and give you a little more space within yourself to control these symptoms better.’
‘Morphine? I’m not ready for that, am I?’ I look at Sheila. ‘I don’t think I’m that bad.’
‘Well, one of the things we are watching in a case like yours is the contamination of the bloodstream with toxins such as potassium, do you understand? And the build-up of toxins often leads to an increase in anxiety and irritation in the patient, and, well, if the symptoms are as we believe them to be, then you might find that a mild solution can help you—’
‘No, thank you. No.’
I’m surely not far gone enough for morphine, am I?
No, No. I’m not dead yet.
‘I just need a little something to — take the edge off.’ I look up at Sheila, hopefully. ‘Just a little something.’
‘Well, as I say, we can get you some relief for your abdominal pains, which we can probably put down to a spot of trapped wind in your intestine. Sharp, sudden pain.’
As he says it, another flash of pain darts its way through my belly.
‘Trapped wind? Seriously, it’s ffff — it’s really really bad. I’m sweating here, I’m sweating. It’s — ffff …’
‘It can get like that, honestly,’ says Sheila. ‘And it’s to be expected. I’m going to get you something to relieve that, OK?’
‘OK. Yes, please.’
‘And you do not want the morphine solution?’ says Sood.
‘No. No thanks.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘I don’t want to go there. I–I don’t want to.’
‘Addiction is not an issue, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s entirely up to you and how you would like to handle your symptoms, but just so long as you are aware of the options available to you. I’d like to register with you the fact that I think a solution of morphine would help you along, ease your symptoms to a point where you’ll be in a good deal fairer fettle than you are now. So I’d like you to bear it in mind going forward.’
The two of them depart, Sheila with a little wink, Sood off to the patient he had come to see in the first place. I’m left here with his final words in mind. Going forward.
Going forward?
To what?
Tell me this is not trapped wind. Trapped wind can’t be this bad. It can’t. Old Faithful’s dead, and I’m here wriggling around with trapped wind. I really hope it isn’t trapped wind.
No, I really hope it is trapped wind.
Sheila returns alone, rotating a small rattley white box round and about in her hands, trying to find the best way of opening it.
‘Here we go now. Don’t worry, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before. Fact of life, isn’t it? We’ve got some suppositories here, joy of joys. They’ll encourage the muscles in your lower intestine to start working a bit to try and help you go to the toilet, all right?’
‘Right.’
‘Would you like to pop this in yourself? I mean, I can—’
‘No, no, fine. I’ll do it.’
‘Here you go. If you head over to the toilet, unwrap it, pop it in pointy-end first, and wash your hands after.’
She helps me down from my bed and across the room — and I need it.
I need the help.
Jesus.
I try and take in a breath but fail. Cough more, but stop short in pain.
‘Oh, you’re all right, lovey. Not at the end of your tether yet, OK? You’re doing very well. Now, you might want to run it under the tap a bit first. I’ll be standing out here, so give me a shout if you need me, won’t you? Don’t be embarrassed. Easier said than done, I know.’
I shuffle into the tiny bathroom, and turn and face the mirror. My eyes have yellowing whites, red round the rim.
This is it. Another intestinal episode. The day I thought I was going to die, and it was just a tummy ache.
I am pathetic.
Sheila takes me by the arm as I emerge from the toilet, and bears me over to the bed. An old man.
‘There you go,’ she says, tenderly. She fetches me a small paper cup of pills and pours me a glass of water. I throat the pills and shift them with water, shake my head to persuade them down. ‘That’s it,’ she says, and smiles. I sit back on my pillows, which she fluffs up behind me. She picks up your blanket from the end of the bed.
My blanket.
‘Here you go, lovey.’ She drapes it round my shoulders. It feels heavy and comforting, like a hug. ‘Just imagine those pills working their way up to your head and spreading their magic. And that suppository freeing things up in the opposite direction.’