As You Were

by Elaine Feeney

  I laughed to myself, then suddenly as a bonesetter’s triumph, air came in, air. Just air, simple but lovely lapping popping air.

  Alex was screaming wildly at me. I had a bag on my face and couldn’t reply, he was making an awful fuss and now he seemed to be holding on to Margaret Rose, really tight. He was always so gentle, but here he was now, going mad, screaming my name over and over and over again and he had an odd way of emphasising the end of my name. Aid. AID . . . I needed to see my children. I imagined them. I could retrace each face. Phew. Limbs long and awkward, the crease of their necks. Little fingers in paint. Worms in spring wriggling in their fists. Tears. Lost teeth. Santa.

  And all through the house. Not a creature was stirring. Not even a mouse.

  I lay naked and shaking. Young doctors fussed about with syringes and bags of fluids. No one considered a sheet, not even a T-shirt. Across the way, Claire, unfussed, picked up her glossy and sat back down as she flicked through it, keeping an eye on Alex and me in turn.

  The balloon inflated and deflated.

  Alex was a tragi-cross between withdrawal and a terrific solitude. Ms Jo Moran stood upright and all serious beside us, and Necktie stared out from behind her as he set about explaining things. ICU was jammed, RTA, I would have to stay put on the Ward, and no, they know it’s not ideal, no, everyone should calm down, everything would be OK, everyone just needed a little time out, calm down, calm, a hand-held telemetry and wires would play Big Brother. He was mostly counselling himself.

  I was freezing.

  The cancer was causing serious respiratory failure.

  It was a shame that I hadn’t wanted treatment.

  It really was a shame.

  For such a young woman.

  But choices and individuals and well, policy.

  Alex stared at them like a clownfish.

  ‘Today is manic in Hospital,’ said Ms Jo Moran. ‘Sorry, but we will try to keep your wife stable and comfortable here, and now, don’t . . . try to talk, Sinéad . . . just rest . . . OK?’

  I tried to speak.

  ‘It’ll be a while before you can talk again,’ Moran smiled, looking down over me as she was tucking some hair behind her ear and settling the stethoscope on her neck. ‘The tube may have damaged the vocal cords . . . I know there’s plenty you will need to discuss with me . . . but try and rest . . . later we can talk.’

  ‘What?’ Alex shouted, moving out from Margaret Rose’s grip and approaching her, his eyes dancing. ‘Will it, is it . . . you know, will she be able to speak?’ He had a dry mouth, staring at Moran’s scope. And Moran went on. Thankfully they didn’t need to leave it in. Or fully intubate me. Bate me. Yet. But it was time we both had a chat. For that’s end/end. End/end/end tube. Poor fucken choice of words, doc. In the meantime she would leave a writing pad for me. And they would all accept my wishes, whatever they might be. She pressed treatment. Urgently, if at all. But urgent. Again. Choices. Respect.

  ‘Is she a Mormon or a Jehovah’s Witness?’ Necktie again. Christ.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Alex said, his jaw dropping open. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m Mr . . .’

  ‘And what the fuck is it to you . . . She’s a . . . She’s a, you know, like you, I mean, me. Like me.’ Then he screamed into his hands and began shaking his head. ‘She’s a fucking atheist. I mean an atheist. Sorry. I have no problem with her being . . . I mean, I’m an atheist myself . . . Christ.’

  ‘You sure she’s not religious? This seems conscientious.’

  ‘Conscien . . . What is wrong with you?’ Alex squared up to him and shouted again, ‘What? What are you saying to me?’ Alex was eyeballing Necktie now and Moran put her arm up, nodded at Necktie to leave, swirling her head to the door to give him directions on the fastest way out. Necktie muttered things as he obeyed, walking away. Well, in any case. An awful pity. But this is hers. Choice. She made it. We are all here for you and the children. Here’s the bell. Lingering. The bell. Oh, yeah, sure. And he took a grasp of it as though he were now also a patient.

  ‘You OK?’ Moran said to Alex. ‘Maybe someone could make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Tea? What? No, no. No tea. I’m, I mean . . .’

  ‘Watching someone crash like that is an awful shock, but she’s . . . she’s OK now. She seems out of danger. For now.’ Moran focused on the machines, lifted a line coming from me, rolled her thumb along the little white roller to speed up the liquid, then squeezed the bag.

  ‘Choice,’ he screamed. He stood over me as he stared down, white with rage. ‘What the fuck does she mean you chose not to know?’ He looked at Moran in desperation. ‘What the actual fuck, Sinéad? You CHOSE not to know? What the fuck?? Is this some sort of a fucking wind-up?’

  Moran shook her head.

  I was so glad they had shoved a tube in my throat and damaged my voice. I put my hand out to catch him, my finger, to grab some of his anger or something, like a mother puts out a tissue, but he hurled it back on the bed. So he could piss off with his anger and his shock.

  Whose business was it anyway? Rhetorical question.

  ‘I don’t want to . . . I mean . . . I can’t actually even . . . touch you, sorry,’ he said. ‘I mean. Christ. Oh, Sinéad, love, oh, my God, look at the state you’ve got yourself in. Jesus Christ.’ It was the lines and tubes. They said Sick as Fuck. He pulled a sheet up around me, and then covered me with a quilt. Finally.

  ‘She doesn’t have cancer,’ he muttered finally. ‘She’s . . . a cold . . .’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Moran said to him, ‘but she choose to keep it to herself.’

  His eyes widened and he frothed at the edges of his mouth. ‘Are you mad?’ he screamed. ‘You choose fucken kitchen blinds, and car hybrid engines. You CHOOSE a fucken takeaway. You even CHOOSE a bottle of wine. And my God, you’re good at that.’

  Ouch.

  ‘Ah, no, they can’t be . . . It can’t be serious. This has to be some sort of wind-up?’

  He was pacing to the toilet door and back. Jane was following him, turning just seconds after him at the doorway and re-entering the Ward like two demented soldiers.

  ‘It’s a joke . . . it is a joke, isn’t it? I mean . . . they just said Terminal.’

  ‘They did, correct,’ Jane said, fanning him, ‘terminal. Yes, that is indeed what they said.’

  ‘Maybe you need to calm down a little, this isn’t helping anyone,’ Moran offered, as Margaret Rose unscrewed a bottle of lemonade and offered it to Alex. He stared at her, then at the drink, bewildered.

  ‘They’re wrong, aren’t they? Aren’t they?’ Alex said to Jane, who continued to fan him.

  ‘Well, she’s very thin, I don’t think they’re wrong, but they’re good in here, though I have yet to locate the kitchen . . .’ she said, scanning the Ward. ‘I mean, they dressed me and I’m very happy now, you see . . . I’ve made new friends.’

  He looked at her, puzzled, and put his hands up to his head and then down, and up and down – he repeated the same action over. ‘I mean, I’ve taken, I’ve been, I . . . I’ve booked our holidays . . . and see, we have a new fridge coming, and the kids have, the kids, you know, they’ve concerts, and Nathan has a thing in the aquarium with the seahorses. Nathan loves seahorses. And the fridge is great, it opens the other way, so it won’t be constantly banging at the door and I think you’ll like the way the hinges . . .’ He trailed off.

  Seahorses. Beautiful creatures.

  And he paused. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, oh, my fucking God, they mean to tell me, she means to say, and the kids, the kids. Your KIDS. What the fuck is wrong with you?’ he screamed down over me. ‘You had three fucking children. Did you just forget that? You have them you have them. Have them,’ he went on, correcting his past tense. ‘You know this, right? Do you need me to name them?’

  ‘Oh, please don’t be cross with her,’ Jane urged. ‘She’s so very lovely.’

  ‘Lovely? You sure? You have her mixed up with her.’ He waved at Marg
aret Rose who was screwing the lid back on the bottle slowly; he softened his tone and started blubbering. ‘Oh, God.’ He took the bottle off her, and cracked it, it spilled out over the dilseacht engraving on his wedding band, and dripped onto Shane’s Adidas catch-all bag. Alex jumped up and fixed a Liverpool FC jersey and towel back in the bag and as he zipped he flipped the bottle into the bin and began crying hard and cursing.

  Seahorses are mates for life.

  And the males do all the child stuff.

  Wish I were a fucken seahorse.

  BTW correction.

  I had four children.

  But no matter.

  It was possibly for the best I couldn’t talk.

  I closed my eyes.

  They’re not my boys, they’re just boys. Our boys. They are themselves.

  This was far worse than the time we sat up all night after he found receipts for rounds of Maker’s Mark and Cokes from a hotel close by that we never frequent. I’d shoved it in my jeans, the receipt, into that little pocket where everyone knows to go to find secrets. It was the Coke that threw him. He knew I hated mixers. And plate-throwing that followed after.

  Nodges, pills, wraps, receipts, condoms, the bold pocket.

  It was worse than the afternoon he found blue Ray-Bans and a Harley Davidson cigarette lighter in my backpack, this was cringe, and he binned them too, after attempting to crush them in his hand, failing, which stoked his temper. Eventually he gave up finding things, or looking for them. I also got better at leaving no trace, like we do when we go camping or on a walk to the woods, or maybe he just binned them, but this was the worst look I had ever taken, because you take a look, don’t you? In defence, I said I never looked for this shit on him, that I respected his privacy, and I muttered something utterly weak about trust, but it was falling flat so I let it fall, for surely he had some lip balm somewhere, or a gin-and-elderflower-tonic receipt. That night, Alex lay in bed and he said the worst part about me was that I didn’t even bother looking.

  Shots Fired.

  Chapter 13

  Margaret Rose cried out loudly the next morning. Shane was dead. They wheeled out his bed, his face covered over with a white sheet that was crumpled in around his left leg leaving his toes uncovered. I felt enormous guilt. Worried I had taken the resources, crash team, doctors’ attention. Molly watched on in silence as they removed Shane’s body. Margaret Rose was blessing herself.

  ‘So sorry,’ Molly said. ‘Not the best for you, ladies.’ I began to shake, pluck my eyelashes, and noticing, she sat by me. ‘He died, darl. But he wanted to die. You didn’t. That’s it. It’s OK. Live a nurse-life long enough and you know those who want to go just go. We have choices, we all have fight, but we all know when we’ve fought enough, darl.’ As she turned to leave after the porters and the body, she turned back. ‘It’s personal, death. Has to be. For everyone. He was comfortable, darl . . . Try not to worry.’

  I was cold.

  Michal arrived shortly after, a pained face of something approaching mourning, lips and nose pinched, and he was kind, persuasive with his coffee and warm porridge but my throat was on fire. I had slept the night through, heavily sedated. Sedated the night through. Thank fuck. ‘Poor man . . . and so so tough on you all here and . . .’ he whispered, nodding at the bed, ‘poor Shane.’

  ‘Good morning, sailors.’ Jane was up and out of bed and pirouetting, she’d rise up slowly and suddenly fall over, rising and falling, over and over.

  Shane was dead.

  I couldn’t stop thinking it. Then suddenly forgetting it. I had heard about death rattles. I heard nothing with my sedation. My heart was palpitating. I wanted to see my mother, but all I could focus on was breath. The puckered creased sheet underneath me was stopping any relaxation, that and the sight of his toes, five. Five toes. I needed to text the boys. Joshua would send a paragraph of emojis. Heart beating. Someone had dressed me in a theatre gown. It was huge and gaped and my arse cheeks were uncovered as it pooled either side of me.

  I tried to speak. I gurgled.

  The windows banged perhaps to protest loss. The curtains around Shane’s bed were wide open and every trace of him gone, apart from a tiny water stain air-drying on the blue mattress where it had been cleaned.

  I had a direct view out to Galway’s gloaming dawn. I tried to focus. I imagined the courthouse hustling, the sprawling buses full of believers arriving for mass at the cathedral, the cynical courthouse and the lofty cathedral oh so close to each other. Fitting. The green dome of the cathedral faded since I was young, from a day here and there of sunshine or from the constant dirty deluge of rain, and the clunky strength in the brick style seemed amateur. But everything seems brighter, more alive when you’re young. Bigger. It was once a prison, rebuilt (Browne again, he didn’t rest), and now a large cold church under the grey Galway fretful sky, ghosts of inmates could be imagined beating their chests for redemption or love inside its walls.

  The Corrib River sneaks herself like long fingers through the city, labyrinthine, slyly moving around the cathedral, forking out at Nun’s Island and in past the Salmon trap to enter under the Salmon Weir Bridge. Around the city’s shop walls, greys and reds, and late at night down by the canals, cola-brown Buckfast bottles lie decapitated here and there. The people are an odd mixture of bog and bohemia, students and shoppers, city and country, of chatter and shopping bags and a village nature, and the city itself is often considered A Graveyard of Ambition, exciting tourists and frustrating locals.

  I tried to follow the river from memory. I started tracing her routes. My heart slowed. This reassured me. But the water had an angry hurry about it, in a tremendous rush to the Atlantic. Things slowed down on a handful of ochre sunshiny days that came late spring and left before summer could take hold. July was usually wet. And rain fell often and heavy. The horse races entice some clowns who take over the place, dressed up, their own theatre for a week, swag and a story, but here’s the thing about escaping, you must take yourself along. Mostly the waterways remained angry, desperately seeking some attention, often sucking in people, their dreams and sadness.

  Past the cathedral, the river moves along, into ‘town’ and by the Spanish Arch, built to protect the city’s quays, and where the old Fish Market used to stand, which stretches prettily down by the Long Walk, bright with duck-egg palates, lemons, magentas, swans, rowing boats. Tourist selfies. Bushing. The cranes have disappeared. It’s all pop-up fooderies, pizza places, falafel spots, Mexican street food, craft beers, wine bars, high rents. Eventually turning back, towards the docks with its murky waters, the pastel colours and glass of the newer buildings of the Tiger decade.

  ‘Karolina is so tired and so sick,’ Michal said, abruptly. ‘She ’ees so cross to me, and I am trying, y’know? I really am. But shifts are so very long. She ees not able to get up for work today. I tell her about you, about you and your children. About what happens to you? Think she care, think she care about you or me? NO. I tell her she is a selfish woman. And she laughs. She laughs at me.’

  Michal was loose with information about his pregnant wife, Karolina Piwaska, who worked on the deli counter in the small grocery shop across the road from Hospital, spending long hours on her feet, stale coleslaw, hot chicken rolls, ciggies, balloons, cards. Happy New Baby, Happy New Man, Happy New House, Happy Old House, Happy Driving Test, Happy Valentines, Happy Happy Happy.

  She enjoyed trying to perfect her accent at work, and he helped her also, for he had more time to learn the

  nuances, Hospital was full of different people he said and for that reason, he considered himself a linguist of sorts; customers come and go, patients stay longer time, good for learning. Yes. Good for learning. Galway vowels could be suddenly very sharp, high-pitched and pushed fast down your nose. Hiya, loveen. And

  all the nuances that took time. City. County. West. East. Mighty. Shir. Craic. How-ew-ya? Terrible. Jusht. Musha. Arra. Michaleen. Sthap. The city kids were the most difficult, he said, the speed of
chat. Just the speed of talk, the speed of youth.

  Byebyebyebyebyebyeslánslánslánslánslán.

  Karolina had made some good friends who worked shifts beside her, splodging fried eggs into baps, toasting BLTs for teary Hospital visitors, and making one-filling sandwiches for the kids putting themselves through college. ‘Karolina loves questions . . .’ he said. So did he. Michal could disarm you with questions, while reaching over with the coffee. ‘So . . . you having scan this morning?’ Michal said, arching an eyebrow.

  ‘No.’ I shook my head.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just hear them at station this morning, when they giving us the orders, always hearing, hearing always hearing. So sorry.’

  Margaret Rose was under her running shower. Steam crept out beneath the door.

  Jane had fallen back asleep after her morning salutations and revelries.

  Suddenly like slaying spectators, numerous teams of doctors descended on our peace.

  clip-clop clip-clop. winks. pinches. oh, but no, you doctor. oh, no, but you doctor. my my. oh phelbbbbbbbbotomy. you know. and blood. you know. iPhones. clip clop clip clop.

  Ms Jo Moran looked more delicate than usual, and was without her Cosmo as she made her way to the edge of my bed. Her followers swarmed behind her, glancing this way and that. One young intern whose Ted Baker glasses had fogged up, tripped over her and she shrieked out like a kitten. He wiped his lenses on his tie and then let them fall to the floor. He would never make it. Hegs coughed loudly and they all threw a fast glance at him, like a mother at her son in Tesco’s to have manners, leave the sweets back.