Ward Z

by Amy Cross

  "A medulla oblongata?" she says, with a hint of disbelief in her voice. "A lower brain stem?"

  "I'm just trying to explain what I'm seeing right before my eyes," I continue, aware that I'm probably opening myself up to ridicule. It's been a long time since I dared to speculate about anything out of the ordinary, and there's a part of me that thinks I should just shut up and keep my head down; still, I can't resist the thought that maybe, after all these years, I might be able to prove all the doubters wrong. "Ignore the craziness for a moment," I continue, "and focus on the evidence. You can see for yourself that this is not a normal tumor."

  "I can also see for myself that you're exhausted," she replies.

  "That doesn't mean I'm wrong."

  "So you think Dominique Ribery has been growing a spare brain in her colon?" she asks with a sigh. "Seriously?"

  "It's well-established that the mess of neural tissue in the gut functions as a kind of second brain," I point out. "That's not science-fiction, Dawn, it's fact. Granted, it doesn't function on the same level as the brain in our heads, but..." I pause for a moment, trying to decide whether it would be wise to continue with this line of reasoning. I know what it's like to be mocked, and the last thing I want is for old wounds to be reopened. "The fact is, Dominique Ribery has grown a brain-like structure in her colon, and -"

  "You need to get some sleep," she says, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  "You think I'm losing my mind," I reply.

  "I think anyone would get a little trippy when they've basically not slept for forty-eight hours. You're not able to look at things logically."

  "So you don't see what I mean?" I ask, turning to her. "Am I just imagining the structure of this thing?"

  "That's not what I'm saying," she replies, "but whatever's going on, you'll be much better equipped to deal with it if you've had some rest." She pauses, before slipping her hand down onto the inside of my trouser leg. "If you need help falling asleep, I know a trick -"

  "No," I say, pushing her hand away. "I'll sleep soon, but right now I need to work out what the hell I'm looking at. Tell Dr. Gerrold I need to see him. I need a second opinion."

  "Are you sure about that?" she asks.

  "Why not?"

  "It's just..." She pauses. "Some of the stuff you just suggested to me sounds a little... out there. Maybe you should try to be more sure of yourself before you start saying the same things to people like Alan Gerrold. They might not all be as forgiving as I am, and your professional reputation -"

  "My professional reputation is nicely healed," I say firmly.

  "You know what I mean."

  "I need a second opinion from someone who shares my level of medical training," I say firmly, keen to remind her that she needs to stay in her place. "No offense, Dawn, but a nurse doesn't qualify. Alan Gerrold, on the other hand, is a good doctor and, most importantly, a trusted friend. I need to speak to him as soon as possible."

  She pauses again. "I'll tell him to come and see you," she says eventually, sounding much colder than before. "You can tell him all about your little theories, and then you can deal with the consequences when word gets around that you've gone back to your old ways." With that, she turns and heads to the door.

  "I'll get some sleep soon," I tell her. "I promise."

  "Do what you want," she replies as she leaves the room.

  Sighing, I turn my attention back to the sample. I know the whole thing sounds crazy, and the last thing I want to do is open myself up to ridicule, but I can't deny what I'm looking at, and I can't pretend that it's a normal specimen when, in reality, it seems to be something else entirely. Glancing over my shoulder, I double-check that Nurse Aubry has left, and then I head over to the filing cabinet that I keep locked in the corner of the room.

  It takes me a moment to unlock the top drawer and slide it open, but finally I pull out the folder containing a set of images from my days as a junior doctor. The truth is, this idea of a tumorous brain-like structure isn't something completely new. I've seen it once before, many years ago, and when I spoke out to my colleagues back then, I was almost laughed out of the profession. Now, more than a decade later, just when I've managed to repair my reputation, I've found something similar. I'm not going to make the same mistake again, but I'm not going to give up either. After all these years, I might yet turn out to have been right all along.

  Cally Briggs

  "What time is Dad coming to pick me up?" Emma asks as she finishes her ice cream.

  I pause for a moment, keenly aware that she's hating every minute of this visit. She's trying her best to smile, but I know my daughter too well to be so easily fooled. She's stiff and awkward, as if she expects me to suddenly deliver the bad news at any moment. The worst part is, she clearly knows what I'm going to tell her, but neither of us can bring ourselves to have that conversation. Not yet, at least. We're sitting in the rest room at the far end of the ward, and no matter how hard I try to entertain her, I can't get past the fundamental fact that a cancer ward is no place for a child.

  "He's coming after lunch," I mutter, glancing over at the window and at the dull gray sky beyond.

  "He said he'd take me to the park," she continues nervously. "They've got a new slide."

  "Did they replace that rusty old red thing?" I ask.

  She nods.

  "I used to play on that when I was your age."

  "It was pretty old," she points out.

  I smile sadly. The truth is, all our conversations seem so forced and unnatural these days. I can hear the tension in her voice, and I've started to think that I'll never have a proper relaxed moment with her again. I should have told her the truth a long time ago, so that she'd have time to get used to it; as things stand, my final few weeks are likely to be filled either with the tension of unspoken words, or with the tears of a girl who knows she's going to lose her mother. I can't say that either prospect fills me with joy.

  Feeling the pain in my side again, I try to hide my discomfort but, within a few seconds, I'm doubled over in agony. The pain pulses through my body, like long, thin fingers wriggling through my veins, until finally it subsides and I turn to see Emma's horrified expression.

  "I'm fine," I say weakly. "Really. It's just cramp. You've seen how long I spend in bed every day. My body's starting to get used to that shape, so when I get up and start walking about..." My voice trails off as I realize that this is a pathetic excuse. "It's nothing to worry about," I add.

  "Don't you want ice cream?" she asks.

  I shake my head.

  "Is it because of your teeth?"

  "They're a little sore," I tell her. This is the first time she's directly asked me about my health since I was first diagnosed almost a year ago, and I can't help but wonder if this is her way of trying to broach the subject that we've both been dreading. "It's because of the drugs I've taken," I continue. "They're supposed to make me get better, but they have certain side-effects. Eating ice cream would be pretty painful right now."

  "I'd hate that," she replies. "If I couldn't eat ice cream..."

  I pause for a moment, trying to decipher the look in her eyes. Is she trying to start a conversation about my illness, or is she just making smalltalk in an attempt to fill the ominous silences that keep breaking out between us?

  "Is there anything else you want to ask me?" I continue, touching my side as I feel the pain start to build again. It's as if it's clawing at me, begging me to take notice and not to forget that it's there; at other times, I feel as if it's exploring my body, crackling through my bones as if it's looking for something. With so much time on my hands to sit and stare at blank walls, it's no wonder that I've started to anthropomorphize my cancer. After all, the damn thing is with me all day and all night, like some kind of malignant friend who won't let go.

  After a moment, I realize that Emma's staring at me.

  "What?" I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  "This place," I continue, trying to hide the
pain in my side. "It sucks, doesn't it? I mean, it literally sucks the life out of you. Even healthy people feel bad in a hospital." I pause for a moment, as an idea starts to take form in the back of my mind. At first, it seems kind of crazy and perhaps even a little irresponsible, but finally I realize that this might be my very last chance to ever do anything impulsive. "Do you wanna go somewhere?" I ask.

  "Where?" she asks with a frown. "The cafeteria?"

  "No," I reply, filled with a kind of energy and enthusiasm that I don't think I've felt for almost a year. "I mean, out of the hospital. Do you want to go on a trip?"

  She pauses, clearly a little worried.

  "It's okay," I say, getting to my feet. The drip-bag and trolley are going to be a problem, but I figure I can tuck the bag into my coat pocket and leave the trolley behind. "Emma, honey," I continue, "do you remember when you were really little, and we used to go to this pub in an old oast house right out in the countryside?"

  She shakes her head.

  "You must remember," I continue. "It was this beautiful old building with a kind of conical roof that used to be used for drying hops, and they did these amazing roast dinners. You used to play on the swings in the beer garden, and there'd be other kids there, and you used to have a great time. There was a dog at the pub, a big black thing. Remember?"

  She pauses. "Maybe," she says eventually, even though it's clear that she doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about.

  "Let's go there," I say. "Right now. Let's get a taxi and go to that pub. We can have roast dinner for lunch, or you can have a burger or something, but we can just go there like normal people, and it'll be something you can really remember." I wait for a response, but she still looks scared. "Just you and me," I continue, feeling the first hint of tears in my eyes. "You and Mummy, going out for one last... for a few hours, for a good time, just the two of us. Something to remember."

  She still doesn't respond.

  "Please?" I ask plaintively.

  "Okay," she says.

  "Okay," I reply, grabbing her hand and shuffling as quickly as possible into the corridor, heading for my room. "We'll just be a couple of hours," I continue, feeling happier than I ever remember feeling in my life. There's still that dull pain in my left side, but I don't care: nothing's going to keep me from having one final trip out with my daughter. At least this way, when she grows up and thinks about me, she won't just think about some withered, yellowing, dying woman in a hospital bed.

  "Are you allowed to go outside?" Emma asks, still seeming so cautious.

  "What do you mean?" I ask as we reach my room and I hurry to the closet. After all, I can't really go out for lunch in my hospital gown, so I figure I'll wear the clothes I was wearing a year ago, when I was first admitted to the ward.

  "Don't you have to ask a doctor?"

  I pause. She's right, of course, but there's no goddamn way I'm going to let some doctor deny me this opportunity.

  "Mummy?"

  "When did you become so timid?" I ask, trying to get her to share my enthusiasm. "Sometimes you have to break the rules, Emma."

  "So you're not allowed out?"

  "No," I say firmly. "I mean, yes, I'm allowed out. It's only for a couple of hours. I'll leave a note so they know that we're coming back, and I'll let Daddy know that he should come a little bit later to pick you up."

  "Can he come to the pub with us?"

  I shake my head. "This is just you and me," I tell her, even though I'm aware that I probably sound a little desperate. "Wait here while I get changed." Carrying my clothes into the bathroom, I push the door shut and turn to face myself in the mirror. God, I look awful, but I'm not going to let anything stop me from taking Emma out. I'd rather die tomorrow than spend a few more weeks eking out a miserable existence in this godforsaken hospital.

  As I start to get dressed, however, I feel the pain start to build again, as if it's trying to reassert itself. I swear to God, my cancer is an attention-seeking little bastard, brooking no interruptions from family or friends. It wants to be the center of attention all the time, but today I'm going to make it take a back-seat. I'm going to take my daughter out for one final trip, even though the pain is getting worse and worse. Finally, as I zip my Junes closed, I'm forced to lean against the wall while the pain throbs through my body. It's usually passed by now, but this time it seems to be twisting and scything deeper.

  "Please," I whisper, scrunching my eyes tight shut. "Please, just let me have this one last day."

  Dr. Andrew Page

  "What happened?" I ask, running into the room just as Dr. Gerrold is charging the pads, ready for an attempt to restart Dominique Ribery's heart.

  "She started to flat-line about twenty seconds ago," he replies, pushing a couple of nurses out the way. "Clear!"

  I watch in horror as he applies the pads and delivers a jolt to Ribery's body. The monitor records no change, so I hurry over and check her pulse.

  "Why is this happening?" I ask, turning to Nurse Aubry. "I thought you were monitoring her?"

  "She was," Dr. Gerrold replies. "I was here when it started. She just flat-lined out of nowhere. Clear!"

  I stand back as he delivers another charge to her chest, and this time the monitor indicates a resumption of activity in her heart.

  "Get her hooked up," I say, hurrying back to the bed and checking her pulse again. "Dominique, can you hear me?"

  "Is this really in her best interests?" Dr. Gerrold asks, keeping his voice low as the nurses work around us.

  "What do you mean?" I reply, carefully lifting one of Ribery's eyelids and looking for any sign of consciousness.

  "She's not going to survive," he continues. "You can't force her to cling to life just so that you can try to prove some cockamamie theory. Dawn Aubry told me all about it, Andrew. You can't seriously be trying to dig up that old chestnut!"

  "Did she tell you about the biopsy result?"

  "Don't throw your career away again," he spits back at me. "I had to drag you out of the dumpster the first time, Andrew, but I won't do it again. I can't! Whatever you think you saw in her biopsy -"

  "I should forget it?" I ask, glancing over at the monitors and seeing that Ribery's blood pressure is dropping. "You want me to pretend I didn't see what I saw?" I continue, turning back to him. "Like last time?"

  "I want you to think about what this could mean for your continued employment at this hospital," he replies. "They're not going to want to employ someone who keeps spouting this crap about brains in tumors, Andrew! You were a laughing stock ten years ago, and if you do it again, they'll rip you apart. You won't be able to practice medicine anywhere!"

  "Blood pressure's going down," Nurse Aubry says, adjusting a dial on the monitor. "Her pulse is increasing."

  "This woman came to me because she thought I could help her," I continue, starting to realize that Dr. Gerrold is no longer on my side. "She had herself airlifted to this hospital purely because she felt that I was the one person who could work out what's wrong with her. Doesn't that count for something?" I wait for him to reply. "It means that she knows," I add after a moment. "She knows that whatever she's got, it's somehow linked to my work all those years ago."

  "You're trying to justify madness," he replies.

  "She's going into cardiac arrest!" one of the nurses shouts.

  "We have to perform a cardiac catheterization," Dr. Gerrold says.

  Before I can reply, Dominique Ribery suddenly gasps and stares straight at me. She's desperate for air and there's sweat pouring down her face, but she pushes Nurse Aubry away and tries to sit up before groaning as the pain hits her.

  "It's okay," I say, grabbing her by the shoulders and gently easing her back down onto the bed. "We're going to -"

  "Burn me," she whispers.

  "No-one's burning anyone," I reply as I notice that the whites of her eyes are starting to turn yellow.

  "Burn me," she whispers again. "Henri was right. Burn everything."

  I look o
ver at Dr. Gerrold and see the shocked expression on his face.

  "Promise me," Ribery continues. "You can't make the same mistake I made. It survived. It's still in there, and it's growing!"

  "We're going to take you through to surgery," I tell her.

  "Burn me!" she gasps, reaching out and grabbing my hand. "Promise me that you'll burn my body and everything in this room! Everything I've come into contact with!"

  "She's delirious," Dr. Gerrold says, grabbing a syringe. "I'm going to sedate her." Before he can get the needle close to her, however, she swings her arm at him, grabbing his wrist and slamming it down against the bed's metal railing with such force that he drops the syringe. "Security!" he shouts.

  "It's okay," I say, kicking the syringe away. "No-one's going to sedate you, Dominique."

  "You know," she whispers. "You've seen it before."

  "I'm not sure," I reply, struggling to find the right words. "Maybe, I -"

  "You know," she says again, as blood starts to seep from the corners of her eyes. "If you let it live, it'll multiply. You have to burn me before it's too late. If I'd burned myself in that tent, none of this would ever have happened. Please, Dr. Page. Be the one who ends this!" Gasping, she arches her back as the monitor shows that she's flat-lining again.

  "Clear!" Dr. Gerrold shouts, grabbing the pads and setting them to charge again. He delivers another shock to her chest, but as I take a few steps back, I start to realize that there's nothing more we can do for her. He tries several more times, but her heart refuses to restart until, finally, he puts the pads down and turns to me.

  "Call it," I say calmly.

  He checks his watch. "One minute past eleven," he says after a moment. "Log that as the time of death. I'm sorry, Andrew. I know she traveled a great distance to see you."