by Grae Cleugh
KAREN: Injecting yourself with Temazepam’s easier than you think. Maybe I would say that. Years of training. Many more spent sticking hypodermics into people’s arms and backsides. After that, doing it to yourself’s pretty much child’s play. The only problem’s the pills. Unless you’re careful, the gel turns solid again in the bloodstream. That happens, you’re in trouble. I know. You roll the dice and take your chances. Isn’t that just like life?
In here, in this room’s where I find him. On the sofa. Place is a bit neater then. He looks asleep. He isn’t. (Beat.) Migraines. He gets them sometimes. He has a stonking headache that whole day. Feels bad and comes home early. Kids, thank god, are still at school. He sits down and I make him a cup of tea. While the kettle’s boiling, I whisper quietly into his ear that he’s overdoing it. Which he is. Too much on the go at work. This is the problem. He smiles at me. ‘I know, Karen’ he says, ‘But what can I do?’ To be fair, he loves his job. Maybe too much. But he’s a good man. The best. I’m not on shift that day, so I leave him on the sofa – he won’t go to bed – and I nick to the shops to get him some Paracetamol and an odd couple of things we need. When I get back – I’m not long – he’s lying with his eyes shut. I lift his cup, tip-toe into the kitchen and put things away. I go up to the bedroom and bring down a cover for him. As I’m putting it over him, I notice his face. His colour. His look. They’re not right. I feel his forehead. Cool. I very gently take his wrist in my hand and check his pulse. He normally laughs at me when I do this. I don’t care. It’s my training. Often his pulse races. It’s stress.
Overwork. Hypertension. Not that day. There’s nothing. Can’t feel anything. Mistake. Has to be. I check again. Still nothing. I shake then shout at him. Try to wake him. Nothing. I drag him onto the floor and see if I can hear his heart. I can’t. I try everything. Everything they train me to do. I’m down on the floor banging on his chest with my fist like some crazy person. Meantime I’m on the phone trying to get an ambulance. They get here quick but there’s nothing they can do. I couldn’t save him. No-one could. Ruptured aneurysm. Dead on our living-room floor at thirty-nine. That, I did not expect.
Keep going for the kids. That’s what people tell me. Mum. My sisters. They all say it: ‘You have to keep going, Karen. For Robbie and Lisa.’ It’s what I tell myself too. Course it is. You have to tell yourself something. But the kids aren’t Andrew. Andrew isn’t the kids. Andrew was my partner in everything we did, my best friend, my lover. I adore my kids but they’re not the same as him. I’m supposed to go on without him. What if I can’t? (Beat.) I try. Get through the days. Which I do. Just about. It’s the nights. They’re the worst. I think because I’m completely alone. Lying there, staring up at that ceiling, thinking about him. I close my eyes. Try to sleep. I can’t. I just can’t. (Beat.) Have you ever not slept? I don’t mean a disturbed night. I mean really not slept. For weeks. I don’t know how I kept going. I was doing everything on automatic pilot. It couldn’t go on. I have to work. Especially now. It’s not a job where you can make mistakes. I’m looking after the kids by myself too. Mum lends a hand but she can’t be there 24/7. It’s up to me now. (Beat.) The pharmacy at the hospital’s got every sleeping pill under the sun, of course. Handy. I’d still need a prescription. Which I can get from one of the Registrars. No problem. Instead, I decide to do things official. Properly. I do what you’re supposed to do. What the good ones like me do. I see my GP.
In my job, we treat patients with drugs every day. Drugs work. They do good. I see this all the time. GPs are different. They used to give out tranquilisers like Smarties. Mum was on Librium for twelve years. In truth, I’m not sure it did her a bit of harm. On the contrary. Kept her functioning. It’s different now. It’s about treating causes not symptoms. Fine. But when your idiot GP says to you, ‘What we need, Karen, is to deal with the underlying problem’, you can’t help but reply, ‘Can you bring my fucking husband back then?’ Lack of sleep also makes you irritable. ‘No’ he says, ‘I can’t do that.’ ‘Then give me something’ I say. ‘I’m a nurse. I know what I’m doing.’ As he’s writing out a prescription, I apologise for swearing. I wish I hadn’t. What he’s giving me’s barely stronger than what you get over the counter. I try it, anyway. I know it won’t work. It doesn’t.
I do what I should’ve done in the first place. No point being a nurse, you can’t get your hands on powerful, mind-altering sedatives. I go see Dr. Arlene Cameron. Arly to me. We don’t always get on with doctors. They want your help when they’re training. Once they’re qualified they turn into pompous gits. Arly’s not like that. We always got on. Worked as a team. She treats me with respect. I go see her and tell her my dilemma. She doesn’t piss me about. ‘What do you want, Karen?’ she says. ‘Something that’ll work’ I say to her. ‘Temazepam’ she says. She writes me a prescription. Two a night for two weeks. Sometimes doctors can be real gems.
It happens that first night. I take two and go to bed. I start to feel relaxed, dreamy. Which is nice. I imagine I’ll nod off soon. No. It keeps going. The slightly out-of-this-world feeling. It turns into something. More than just calm. It’s a surprise and I can hardly believe it. I start to feel happy. Really bloody happy. A fantastic, carefree feeling. Like nothing can go wrong. It feels warm. Not physically. A little. It’s as if I’m being cuddled. It’s beautiful. Then I think about Andrew. I remember him. And there’s no pain. No gut-wrenching, sick-making, pit-of-hell torture. I see him in my mind’s eye and smile. I can think about him again and feel happy. I like that. Lasts for hours too. Like that more.
Next thing I know, I’m being shaken and there’s Lisa. ‘Mummy, it’s getting-up time.’ Lisa’s my alarm. I don’t bother with a clock any more. Since she was five and started school, she’s wakened us at seven o’clock on the dot every morning. ‘Mummy, you’re smiling’ she says, as if I’ve never smiled. ‘Am I?’ I say. She smiles back. Big cheesy grin of hers. ‘Why are you smiling, mummy?’ ‘I had a nice dream’ I say to her. ‘Good’ she says. Robbie then bounces into the room. ‘Is she up yet?’ he says. ‘Mummy’s smiling. Mummy had a dream’ says Lisa to Robbie in her best ‘I know something you don’t’ voice. Both of them then drag me up and out of bed. Kids are so bloody resilient. I know her and Robbie are missing Andrew a lot. Somehow they have each other. Twins. I should be helping them. Some days, it’s the other way around. (Beat.) Of course I tell them it was a dream. Have to. What else can I tell them? That their mummy was off her face?
I go to speak to Arly about what happened. Then I don’t. Something stops me. Euphoria’s not uncommon for Temazepam. But I know if I say I’ve had it, she’ll put me on something else. I’m not sure I want that. At work that day, all I think about is getting home. Once I’ve fed the kids and put them to bed, I can take my pills and feel better about everything. Be happy. Think about Andrew and not want to die. I take two again that night. It’s good. The feeling. Like before. Really good. Like I need it to be. This is how it goes for two weeks. I see Arly for another prescription. She asks how I’m getting on. ‘Okay’ I say. ‘They’re working. I’m sleeping. I’d like to keep taking them for a couple more weeks. Just to get back on an even keel.’ ‘Okay’ she says. ‘But then that’s it, Karen. They can be addictive, you know.’ ‘I know’ I say to her, ‘Don’t worry.’ Two more weeks.
It starts one night near the end of the month. I take them as usual. It doesn’t feel the same. I get something off them, yes, but not so strong. Not happy anymore. Night after, it’s worse. Nearly nothing. I’m upset. I can bear it during the day if I know it’s different at night. I’m becoming tolerant, I think. To the pills. I’m not sure but this is what I think. I’ve nearly run out of what Arly’s given me. Great thing about hospitals. There’s more than one doctor. I see somebody else. Someone I work with. Tell him I used them in the past. Years ago. For insomnia. Short-term. They worked. He writes me up for two weeks’ worth. There’s no problem. I just lost my husband. They know this. Other thing. It’s confidential
. One doctor isn’t going to tell another. That’s the beauty of it. That night I take three. To get it back. The feeling. Like it was. That’s all I want. I’ll need three. Probably. I take three.
The more I take, the better the feeling. Simple as that. There’s problems. Taking more. Getting through a day is hard, sometimes. I get tired. Then there’s the tolerance: having enough to do me. After I’ve been round the doctors I know, I hit a wall. What do I do? I should stop. I try. Doing without. I can’t. I want to think about him now. This is the thing. I didn’t but now I do. Without the pills, even saying his name tears my insides out. I go to the hospital pharmacy. They know me there. I take some. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Ever. They do inventory every so often. They notice some’s missing. They don’t know who. It makes it harder for me. They’re keeping an eye out now. I try to get smarter. I have to be bolder. What the hell. I do it – steal some more.
‘What do you bloody think you’re doing? You’ve got two kids to look after!’ Mum goes ballistic. I agree to treatment while I’m on suspension. They won’t prosecute if I get rehab, counselling. I can come back to work when I’m better. There’ll be a disciplinary, yes, but given the extenuating circumstances – Andrew – it’ll be a slap on the wrist. Again, it’s the nights. During the day, I’ve got the kids to organise. Mum comes round too. Every afternoon. We go out and do things. Shopping. Whatever. Once a week I go to therapy. Talk it through. But really, what is there to say? When I come back home, when I’m by myself, late at night, I want to remember him. And be on cloud nine when I do. I attend support group once a fortnight. Which I think I’m going to hate. It’s bloody dreary, I can tell you that. First few times I go. Most of them are trying to come off heroin. We used to get junkies coming in to A&E. Overdoses. That isn’t me. This new girl comes one week. Sal. Can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Looks in a bad way. Tells her story. She’s the first. The first I’ve met like me. She’s a Temazepam girl. Suddenly my ears prick up. She talks about her injecting. I make friends with her. I’d say it’s because I like her. It’s not true. I don’t. She’s not a nice person. But she can sort me out.
I learn a lot from Sal. I learn first and foremost you get a bigger hit from Temazepam if you inject it. Melt it down, dilute it and inject it. Also, jellies, the ones with gel in the capsules, are better than the tablets. Course they don’t make jellies anymore. Not here. Sal can get them for me. From her dealer. She gets me my first lot. Made in Russia or somewhere. I don’t care where they’re made. I sit down one night after I’ve put the kids to bed and I get everything ready. Sal’s told me what to do.
It starts like it did before. Then it gets stronger. And faster. Then it comes. All over. Through me. I feel incredible. So good. I think only lovely things. About him. Us. Our life together. All we did. Meeting. Making love. Parties. Holidays. Having the kids together. All of it. And the feeling. Feeling of having Andrew with me. Loving me. His hand holding mine. Gently. Always. Jesus. You don’t ever want it to end. This goes on nearly all night. You lose track of time. Kids come and get me. Somehow I make it into work that day and get through. Don’t know how. (Beat.) What can you say? Injecting’s different. Gorgeous. Oh yeah. God bless support group.
I hide it well. Something like this. It isn’t easy. Keeping it from the kids. Hiding it from work. From mum. I manage it. For a while. Then, maybe the inevitable. I wake up one time, early in the morning. I can’t feel my leg. I know there and then. I need to get to the hospital, soon as, try to save it. I phone an ambulance then call mum, ask her to meet me there. I have to take the twins. It’s scary for them but I’ve no choice. Can’t wait for mum to come over. The nearest is the Southern. Where I work. A friend of mine, Claire’s, on duty when I get there. She looks after Robbie and Lisa till mum comes. They take me in straight away. Doctor looks at me. ‘Do I know you?’ he says. I tell him straight off what it is. No point trying to piss about. I would actually quite like to walk out of there on both pins. They try. They do. But no. Not to be. Well. I don’t mind that much. Get used to it. They gave me a prosthetic. I don’t wear it. Too bloody uncomfortable. Thing now is to try to hang on to the rest of me. If I can.
While I’m in there, they give me Temazepam. To wean me off it. Which they do. By the time I get out, I’m clean as a whistle. They offer me anti-depressants but I say no. Even if they work, you’ve got to come off them too, right? No. I have to do this myself or not at all. Linda, my sister, takes the kids while I’m in. I miss them. Every day. The promise is that if I stay off it, I get the kids back. Linda brings them over couple of times a week to visit me while I’m in there. I can see I’m breaking their hearts. They’re so pleased to see me. They’re afraid. I’m afraid. I do miss them. Just before I come out, I tell them I’m okay now.
Few weeks after I’m home, I start again. I try not to. I don’t think I ever really had a choice. It’s all of it just too much. I phone Sal. She doesn’t want to be my middle-man any more, so she gives me a number to phone. I have to ask him to deliver it. Like some sort of pizza guy or something. Offer somebody enough money, this guy especially, they’ll do anything. Round he comes. Pills and syringes. Everything. Away I go again.
Kids are better off where they are. Not seeing me. Linda’s good with them. Least they’re not with strangers. Mum’s disowned me. Doesn’t call. Come round. It’s up to me now, she says. No-one can do it for me. That’s true. Got canned from work. Not even a leaving do. They come round still. Occasionally. See me. From the hospital, I mean. Friends – nurses. Other friends still come too sometimes. Or a neighbour looks in. Bloody social worker comes over once a week. They all mean well. I know that. I don’t need it. Want any of them. I don’t answer the door now.
It’s fine like this. No-one here. In the way. I only want Andrew. It’s all I need. To remember him. Happily. No pain. Course, maybe the pills’ll stop working one of these days. Probably they will. I know it. Or me, what’s left of me, maybe I’ll stop working. It’s okay. That’s just life, isn’t it? Too bloody short.
Blackout.
Music.
6. ‘TURKISH DELIGHT’
Music off. Lights up. BETTY, a woman of 65, sitting at her kitchen table. She has a cup of coffee. She smokes.
BETTY: Jim wis never a great wan fir orgasms. I tell a lie. He wis a great wan fir his ain orgasms. No sae much fir mine. I don’t blame him. Aw men are the same. Aw the men here, onyway. Repressed an pig-ignorant. Nae sex please, or at least nae decent sex please, we’re Scottish. Who’s tae blame? I don’t know. Religion, probably. Jim couldnae find a clitoris wi baith hands an a map. No interested. Onyway, I loved him an ye get used tae anythin aifter a while. Aifter the first few years, sex nearly aw grinds tae a halt, in any case. Once a fortnight if yer lucky. The irony wis he drapped deid while we were daein it. It’d been a while, right enough. Maybe a year or two. He’d just come in fae plantin his parsnips – if you’ll pardon the pun – an he had a wee twinkle in his eye that I hudnae seen fir quite some time.
‘Whit are you aifter?’ I says tae him.
‘You know whit’ he says.
‘Yer Tunnocks tea-takes are in yer tin’ I says.
‘It’s no them I want’ he says, an he shows me this wee blue pill.
‘What’s that?’ I says.
‘Viagra’ he says.
‘Where did ye get it?’ I says.
‘Doon the pub’ he says. ‘Willie McKay gave it to me tae try.’
‘Has he been takin them?’ I says.
‘Aye’ he says. ‘Worked a treat fir him.’
I thought aboot it fir a second. I had noticed, right enough, that when I last saw big Ina, Willie’s wife, she had a smile on her fizzog that I hudnae seen her wi for some considerable time. I thought maybe she’d had a win on the bingo or somethin. Now I knew different.
‘Awright’ I says tae Jim. ‘We can try the Viagra. If yer sure it’s safe.’
‘Safe as hooses’ he says.
We go upstairs an
sure enough it starts tae work. Trouble is, he gets too bloody excited. Starts huffin an puffin aw o’er the place.
‘Are you awright?’ I says tae him.
‘Aye’ he says. ‘I’m fine’, an he keeps goin. Twenty tae the dozen.
Just at the moment when he…you know, he lets out this bloody great yelp. They must have heard it two streets doon. Then nothin. Silence. It’d no be the first time he’s fallen asleep oan tap o me. I push him aff.
‘Jim’ I says tae him. ‘Jim! Jim!!’
Nothin.
That wis him.
I can think o worse ways tae go.
Aifter bein wi the same man for nye on forty years, you never think yer gauny meet another, dae ye? My daughter Janice was aye on at me.
‘Mum, huv ye ever thought aboot meetin someone else? You should get oot there’ she says.
‘I’m too auld tae meet another man’ I says.
‘Ye are no’ she says. ‘Yer only 63. Yer still young.’
‘Onyway’ I says tae her, ‘I canny be bothered trainin another yin up. It took me ten years just tae get yer faither sorted oot. I canny be arsed.’
She keeps badgerin me but nothin comes o it. Then one time she says tae me, ‘I’m gaun on holiday. Dae ye fancy comin wi me?’
‘Where ye gaun?’ I says tae her, thinkin she’s away tae Saltcoats or Dalgety Bay or somethin. Well, that’s where Jim an I used tae go. Rent a wee caravan for a fortnight. Suited us fine. Course the young yins these days like tae splash oot a bit. No that my Janice’s a teenager or nothin. No onymore. Just turned thirty-eight, so she has. Aye. Divorced an aw. Right eejit she married, so she did. Course I thought so at the time but you don’t like tae say, do ye? You huv tae let them make their ane mistakes. Julian, his name wis. Well, that wis a bad start in itsel. It gets worse. He wis an academic. Brainy aye but nae common sense. His faither wis an academic tae. Professor of somethin or other. Anthropology, I think it wis. Made the worst weddin speech you’ve ever heard in yer life. Aw aboot the matin habits o the Pupu tribe of New Guinea or somethin. Aw oor lot were bored stiff. Lookin aroon tae each other as if tae say, ‘What the bloody hell is this auld bugger talkin aboot?’ We aw needed a few swift halfs aifter listenin tae that speech, I can tell ye. Onyway, marry him she did. She’s got two lovely boys right enough. David an Alistair. They live wi her. The husband buggered off wi some girl he met at a conference in Peru. Never came back. Good riddance, I say. Nutter, he wis. Hit her a few times an aw. Which I can’t forgive. In aw oor years thegither, Jim never laid a hand tae me. If he had, mind you, he’d have got it back an then some. But he wisnae that kind of a man. This Julian, though.