As Sick As Our Secrets

by Diane Ezzard

“No, I’m fine Dad, honest.” My shoulders were slumped.

  “Look at you. You're all skin and bone. When was the last time you ate?”

  “Lunchtime I think, but I’ll eat something when I get in.”

  “I can rustle up a ham sandwich for you. I’ve got some of that honey roast in that you always rave about.”

  “Oh go on, then.” I rose from the chair and moved towards the kitchen. “I’ll make it,” I said. Dad had followed me in.

  “No, you sit yourself down and I’ll make you a pot of tea and a sandwich. I’d have done something special if I’d have known you were coming.”

  “Thanks, Dad but a sandwich is fine.”

  I went back and sat in the lounge. I knew from Dad’s reactions that the worst was over. He wasn’t going to give me a hard time. It always depended on what mood he was in whether he reacted to any of my news or not. I hated when he got angry because he had a real temper on him. It was that and the constant arguments that had split him and Mum up.

  I found out later the reason for his bright mood. He had won fifty pounds on the lottery. I was thankful for small mercies. That had made my telling him a lot easier. I stayed for about an hour and we chatted although neither of us had any further news. I promised to keep him updated, and he said he would say a prayer in the hope that the police didn’t charge me.

  I was minding my own business as I drove home that night. Listening to music on the radio and following the traffic, I suddenly glanced up. The car in front of me went through the traffic lights on red. I fisted my hand down on the horn and shook my head, tutting. How easy an accident could have been caused if something had been coming through the crossroads.

  Then, to make matters worse, I slowed down to stop at the lights and the car behind me overtook me and also went through on red. I couldn’t believe it. Heat flushed through my body as I tensed up. My muscles quivered as I swore under my breath. I knew from my reactions, I was out of sorts as I could normally let things like that pass.

  I didn’t usually suffer with road rage but I couldn’t let it go. I kept playing over and over in my head, what if something had happened? I knew also that I was feeling sorry for myself. I felt the rest of the world was getting away with murder, literally. I was probably going to be charged by the police harbouring a criminal even though I had never let Charlie stay at mine. Then I remembered my secret and realised that maybe I did get away with things as much as other people.

  I reached home and turned the key in the lock to open my front door. It was easy when I was out of the way to forget what had happened at home, at least for a short time. As soon as I got in, I was surrounded by reminders, the small TV in place of my large widescreen television, bare walls that had been adorned with lovely pictures and photographs. I’d not replaced the broken mirror or the lamps yet. Even the books in the bookcase I’d put back didn’t seem to look right anymore.

  It was as though I could feel the violation that had taken place and as for the carpet, well I couldn’t bear to look at that. I’d hoped I might have heard from Charlie, even though I’d told him to stay away. I started to cry. I wiped my face with a tissue then scrunched it up and threw it in the bin.

  My low mood wasn’t lifting. Life felt like a chore and I didn’t feel able to shake off the gloom. The thought of food was too much of an effort. What was the point of eating? I kept harbouring on in my head about what had happened. Life seemed pretty dark.

  I didn’t want to speak to my friend, Angela when she rang. At weekends, I had become a virtual recluse, not speaking to anyone. I had no social life. It had been a few years now since I’d had a partner. I was loath to try dating again. My attempts had all ended in disaster. Life felt like one big dark cloud. Even work which I generally enjoyed, felt grim, especially the note writing, and I was getting behind with my paperwork. I’d been pulled up about it but I found it difficult to motivate myself.

  I worried that my mood was rubbing off on my clients. Roseanne had been coming to see me for a couple of months and last week she asked me if I was okay. It was supposed to be me asking her. She was still struggling after the death of her partner and couldn’t move forward. I knew I didn’t want to get stuck in a rut but climbing out of this was easier said than done sometimes and the familiar felt attractive.

  I woke up the following morning determined to do something to push myself forward. I didn’t know what yet, but I did know I couldn’t continue in this frame of mind. I was seeing Roseanne but instead of bucking my ideas up she caught me not listening to her. She mentioned it and I apologised profusely saying I wasn’t too well physically. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to be reported.

  I couldn’t continue like this so I made an appointment with my GP and managed to get in to see him that evening. I didn’t know if that was a good thing but when he asked me how he could help, I burst out crying. I told him about being down and under pressure at work. He asked me to complete a questionnaire. I wasn’t suicidal, so he suggested me going on anti-depressants for a time. I agreed because anything was better than the way I was feeling. He also gave me a sick note for a couple of weeks off work.

  I felt guilty about taking time off from my job. I knew I wasn’t a shirker, but I thought a break from my routine might be what I needed. I got into bed that night with the satisfaction that hopefully, I would soon be on the mend.

  I was in a deep sleep when I heard ringing. The noise woke me. At first, I thought my alarm was going off, and that it was morning but I felt too tired for it to be seven o’clock. I spotted the time and saw it was almost three o’clock. Who on earth would be ringing me at this time? My first thought was it was Charlie in trouble. Groggy eyed, I gazed at the screen and Steph’s name was showing. My hands went clammy as I wondered what she could be phoning me for at this unearthly hour. I picked up the phone.

  “Steph?”

  “Can you get down to Fairfield Hospital, pronto?”

  “Yeah, why? What’s up?”

  “It’s Dad.”

  “Why what’s happened?”

  “He’s been taken in with chest pains?”

  “When, how?”

  “I don’t know the details, Soph. He’s in intensive care, suspected heart attack. You need to get over there now.”

  “Yeah course. I’ll get dressed.” The phone went dead. My mind was in a daze.

  I was at the hospital within fifteen minutes. The roads were quiet at that time in the morning. The chilled air was like a slap in the face and woke me up properly. I asked at the reception where intensive care was and I was directed to the ward. I rushed along and went up to the desk.

  “I believe my dad’s been brought in here, Derek Brown?” The nurse inspected her notes then came around to my side of the desk. She put her arm underneath my elbow and guided me through to an interview room. She motioned for me to sit down then sat alongside me.

  “Your dad’s had a heart attack. We lost him about thirty minutes ago but the crash team brought him back.” I put my hand over my mouth. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I gasped.

  “Oh dear.” My eyes filled with tears. “So what does that mean?”

  “Your dad’s very poorly. We’re monitoring him closely.”

  “Can I see him?” I began whimpering.

  “Yes, of course, we’ll get you gowned up.” She took me through to the room where Dad lay motionless. A number of pieces of equipment were attached to his body and there were various screens and beeping noises. Beads of sweat settled on my forehead. I didn’t like looking at him like this. I wished Steph was with me. I lowered my voice to a whisper.

  “Is he conscious?”

  “He’s breathing,” came the reply. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. I swept my hand across my forehead to soak up the perspiration.

  “Can I hold his hand?”

  “Of course and you can speak to him as well. He may seem like he can’t hear but he probably can.” The nurse smiled at me. Her tone was very gentle. I sho
uld have felt reassured by her but I didn’t.

  I went and sat by the side of him and gently picked up his hand. A cannula was sticking in, making his hand look blue and had bruised. I gulped.

  “Hi Dad, it’s Sophie. Steph’s on her way up from London to see you.” I tried to smile. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you three times in one week.” I wiped a tear away. I was struggling to speak. Seeing him like this, I felt so helpless. I held his hand through the night. I could see the dawn rising outside. I was exhausted but my tiredness had been knocked out of place by fear. I didn’t want Dad to die. What would I do without him? He was too young. I glanced over at him and he seemed so peaceful.

  Next thing I heard a continuous beeping sound and within seconds the room was filled with people in uniform. One of the nurses put her arm around my shoulder and guided me off the chair I was sitting on.

  “You’re going to have to sit in the reception area for a while.”

  “Why, what’s happening?”

  “We’re going to have to get your dad’s heart working again.” I wanted to scream but instead, I grimaced.

  I did as I was told and was escorted outside the room where Dad was fighting for his life. I whispered a prayer under my breath. I apologised for all the wrong I had done. I felt guilty for bringing this on for Dad. I sat with my head in my hands and wept. Please pull through Dad, please.

  Chapter 9

  SOPHIE

  All through my life, I had felt I was to blame. It didn’t matter what it was. I always thought it was my fault. At school, if someone misbehaved, I wanted to own up because I felt so guilty, even though I had nothing to do with whatever the crime was. I still felt that way. I felt it was my fault when Mum left Dad. They had been arguing and not getting along for years so I felt responsible.

  I knew I was carrying a heavy burden but didn’t know how to let it go. I hunched my shoulders and my chin quivered as I recalled times when I had upset Dad in the past. I knew I hadn’t been a model daughter, and I always brought worry on for my parents. I looked down at the floor and leaning forward, I ran my fingers through my hair.

  I glanced up to see an orderly coming towards me with a mop and bucket. She stopped at the side of me. A Muslim family were sat there and one of them had spilt coffee on the table and on the floor. When I glimpsed down at my jeans, there were wet slashes there too. I hadn’t even noticed any commotion. One of the family members, a woman, passed me some tissues to wipe the spillage off my clothes but I waved her away.

  “That’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” My jeans were unimportant compared to what was going on in the next room with Dad. She was very apologetic, but I wanted them to go away and leave me alone with my misery. My eyes followed the cleaner as she mopped up the mess. I could see she had missed a bit but I couldn’t be bothered to tell her. Nothing mattered at the moment other than Dad pulling through. I vowed to see more of him if and when he recovered from this. It felt like hours that I had been sat there. The Muslim family disappeared. I didn’t see them go.

  I sat in the reception area watching, waiting. I focussed on the scene unfolding around me. Everywhere, I saw muted colours, walls in washed-out tones of grey. There was an eerie silence about the room in stark contrast to the emergency ward reception where drunks rolled in. The room began to fill up with people wearing sallow expressions. Their eyes were crying out to be the other side of the dusty window panes.

  I stared at the hand sanitizer by the navy-blue coloured double doors, feeling compelled to use it. I wanted to believe that by cleansing my hands I could also cleanse my mind of the torture it was going through. I told myself, if I use that liquid, everything will be okay. Dad will get better. It was compelling me forward. I glimpsed down the corridor and saw trolleys approaching, trying to avoid the people walking by. Looking down again at the highly polished shiny linoleum, I heard the sound of shoes walking quickly and growing louder as they got closer.

  Averting my eyes away from the dispenser, I followed the sounds and marching through towards me came Steph. I breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow, I believed she could shoulder my pain and if the hand sanitizer couldn’t make it go away, maybe Steph could. We hugged without words.

  “They’ve told me to wait out here.” Steph nodded. She walked over to the nurse’s station to find out what was going on. I sat watching Mrs Efficiency in operation. She was deep in conversation with two of the nurses and I knew I could trust her. If there was anything needed to happen, she would organise everything. There were people coming and going. I kept my eyes fixed on Steph.

  She beckoned me over. She smiled, but the smile was limited to her mouth.

  “They’ve said we can go in to see him in a couple of minutes.” I reciprocated with a similar smile.

  Walking into the ward, the first thing I noticed was the tubes linked to Dad. His ashen skin colour matched the walls, and I thought how frail he seemed. His appearance was scary. Steph and I both pulled up a chair. I watched the monitors, oblivious to their meaning. There were random numbers churning out. Sixty-four, thirty, every number that came out, I hoped were lucky numbers.

  Time went on. I shared memories of Dad with Steph as well as polystyrene cups of tea. It was the sort of conversation usually associated with a funeral. That hadn’t gone unnoticed in my thoughts. I tried to remember that Dad might be able to hear so turned to him and spoke about football and golf. I told him about the latest transfer news in the papers. I was glad I had glanced at the headlines that morning.

  I knew the British Open was coming up. Dad was also a big fan of snooker. I couldn’t think of anything to say relating to that. I’d heard of Ronnie the Rocket but that was about as far as my knowledge went. Every time I spoke to him, I searched his face for any movement but there was none.

  I couldn’t have coped with this without Steph there. Another hour passed. I kept watch. I was like the night watchman on duty. I wasn’t going to fall asleep at any cost. I kept peering at the monitors and the drips, then back at Dad. It was as well I didn’t know what everything meant as it would have added to my stress had I known how poorly Dad was.

  Steph was glancing through a magazine. I had turned down the offer of reading one. I knew I couldn’t focus on anything at the moment. I kept up my vigil of watching Dad and the monitors. I kept checking to see his chest rising and falling.

  Steph was talking about day-to-day matters but I couldn’t concentrate. It was difficult enough for me to string a sentence together at the moment without crying. I didn’t want Dad to see my tears so sat there quietly, desperately holding back my emotions. I tried to think of something else to say to him. I talked to Dad some more about football and I relayed details of last night’s results as best I could remember. Dad was a big Manchester United fan.

  Holding his hand, I said, “Did you see the highlights of the game last night, Dad. I think it was on telly?” Of course, Dad didn’t respond. “Wayne Rooney scored a cracking goal, I heard, and it was a great result beating Spurs 3-0.” Steph gave me a genuine smile. I could tell she was happier with me talking football rather than moping and crying over him. Dad and I had been through so much together and I didn’t want to lose him. He had been there for me through the domestic abuse I suffered and I vowed to be there for him now if he pulled through this.

  Steph joined in, “Do you think United might win the cup this year?” She was looking over at Dad. She knew nothing about football but at least she was doing her best. She laughed and looked at me.

  “I was thinking,” she said, “what was that song Dad always sang to us at night when we went to bed?”

  I sniggered, “There were two, “Roamin’ in the Gloamin’” and “Donald where’s your trousers” if I remember rightly.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right,” Steph smiled then in her best Scottish accent she began to sing, “Let the wind blow high, let the wind blow low.” I joined in and together we recaptured our youth, singing away.

  When we finished our rend
itions, Steph turned to Dad and said, “Did you like that, Dad?” She turned to me and smiled.

  “That was certainly a lot better than Dad’s version. He has a terrible voice. He’s never been able to sing in tune.”

  “I wonder why he always sang Scottish songs?” I didn’t know. There were lots of things about Dad I didn’t know but I vowed to find out. Life was too precious and could be snuffed away so quickly and cruelly.

  Steph had been to get us both a sandwich for our lunch. I hadn’t even realised we’d gone past breakfast time. I hadn’t wanted to leave Dad. I felt more in control, waiting and watching over him. I wrongly believed he wouldn’t die if I kept an eye on him. I was so tired. My eyes were drooping.

  “Why don’t you go home and get a few hours rest, Soph?”

  “No, no, I’ll be fine.” I didn’t feel fine but I couldn’t go anywhere while Dad was like this. I didn’t want to miss anything if he woke up. I was drained emotionally and physically but my body was fighting on and I hoped Dad’s was as well. I did what had become my monitoring ritual of watching him then watching the machines. Was I imagining things or did I just see his eyelid flicker? I wasn’t sure.

  “Dad,” I called. “Dad, can you hear me?” With my eyes, I urged Steph to do the same. Sitting forward in her seat, she put her lips close to his ear.

  “Dad, it’s me Steph. How are you?” We continued calling to him for a few minutes but there was no movement. I felt disheartened and sighed heavily. Maybe I had imagined it, willing him to wake up. It felt like seeing an oasis in the desert when it turned out to be a mirage. Steph sat back down to read her magazine. I couldn’t understand how looking at dress patterns in Prima could help but I knew everyone dealt with trauma and shock differently.

  Another hour passed. All sorts of thoughts were going through my head. I tried to prepare myself for the unthinkable if he didn’t pull through but my mind wasn’t ready to go there yet. Steph was super efficient. She’d sent Tim, her husband a text asking him to let Dad’s friends and other family members know what had happened. I hadn’t given a thought to worry about anyone other than the three of us.