by Tony Salter
'Sam. Mummy and Daddy have to go to see the headmistress, Mrs Stanton, and sign some papers ... Will you be OK? ... We'll be back in five minutes.'
'OK Mummy,' he said, before striding into the room. He stopped after three or four paces, half turned and lifted his hand in a half wave. 'Bye Mummy. Bye Daddy,' he said, before turning again and running to join the others.
Rupert looked at me with a big grin. 'I think he'll be OK,' he said.
Mrs Stanton stood as she saw us and quickly ushered us into the office. 'Mr and Mrs Blackwell, I'm surprised to see you both here today. Can I help in some way?'
Rupert and I looked at each other and I could tell he was as confused as I was. 'Good morning, Mrs Stanton,' he said. 'Isn't it usual for the children's fathers to come along on their first day? It is a big deal for us both after all.'
'No, no, it's not that, Mr Blackwell. It's just ... just ... well, I wasn't expecting to see either of you here today.'
'Why on earth not?' my voice was trembling. 'It is the first day of term, isn't it?' Surely I couldn't have got the date wrong.
'Yes, it is. Of course it is. But, as you cancelled your son's place last week ...'
'You did what?' said Rupert, turning to me.
'I did nothing of the sort,' I said to Mrs Stanton. 'I have no idea what you're talking about.'
'But I had an email from you last Wednesday,' she replied. 'Apologising for the late notice, and explaining why Sam wouldn't be able to join us this year.'
'I'm sorry. There must be some mistake,' I said. 'I didn't send any email.'
'I can assure you that we did receive an email, Mrs Blackwell and we replied straight away. We have copies in your file but, in any case, as you know, we spoke on the phone.'
'What? No we didn't.' I had no idea what was going on. 'We've not spoken since the time I visited with Sam's grandmother, about three weeks ago.'
'But I called you, Mrs Blackwell,' she said, her firm, schoolmistress authority brooking no interruption. 'I spoke to you on Friday afternoon. You told me that you didn't think your son was ready and asked us to defer the place until next year. You must remember. It was only three days ago?'
'No. No. We didn't speak,' I said.
'We most certainly did,' she continued. 'I explained why I couldn't give you a guarantee, but that I would be able to put you at the top of the waiting list for the three to four year-old entry.'
Before I could reply, Rupert jumped in. 'I'm sorry, but I'm totally confused. We had a confirmed place for Sam and we've already paid for the first term, haven't we?'
'Yes. And normally the payment would not be refundable as you cancelled at such short notice. I discussed this with your wife, however, and we agreed that, as we had several people on the waiting list, we would exceptionally make a full refund in your case.'
The nightmare was starting again, my heart was pounding, two iron hands slowly tightening around my throat as I struggled to get my words out. 'But I didn't send any email and we didn't speak on the phone.' I was flicking my gaze between the two of them and felt myself stepping up and back, out of my body, so I could look down on them both together.
They were staring at me with frightened eyes like two rabbits transfixed in car headlights. Why were they frightened? I was the one who couldn't breathe. This was happening to me. This was my nightmare.
'Are you all right, Mrs Blackwell?'
'Fabi, what's wrong? Come and sit down. Let me help you.' Rupert's strong arms around me were warm and comforting, but I still couldn't breathe and was certain I was having a heart attack.
'Water,' I croaked out. 'Please, water.'
I stayed in my disembodied state for almost an hour afterwards, watching everything from above but still aware of the stabbing pain in my chest and my struggles to breathe. I managed to tell Rupert about the chest pains and he rushed me out to the car, leaving Mrs Stanton promising to make sure Sam was looked after until we got back.
By the time we got to A&E at the John Radcliffe, the pain had receded but, as I was presenting with acute chest symptoms, they rushed me straight through and I sat in a dismal, white curtained cubby hole for forty minutes while a string of doctors and nurses came in and out, alternating between asking questions and poking, prodding and palpitating.
Eventually a nurse took me back out to the waiting room where I could see Rupert perched on the edge of his seat, slumping forward with his hands clasped behind his head. He looked alone and miserable. I walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
'Fabi,' he cried out, leaping to his feet and wrapping his arms around me. 'Are you all right? Was it a heart attack?'
'I'm fine, darling. Apparently it was only a panic attack. I'm sorry, I feel like such an idiot. I seriously thought it was my heart this time. It was much, much worse than last year.'
'It doesn't matter, cara mia. As long as you're OK, nothing matters.'
'You are the sweetest man,' I said, kissing him. 'I really don't deserve you.'
The doctor had prescribed me some strong sedatives, but only for a couple of days and had told me I needed to see my GP straight away. After collecting these, we drove straight home.
On the way back, Rupert explained that he had arranged for his mother to collect Sam from the nursery and to have him for a sleepover, so there was no stress and I would have time to recover.
I had almost forgotten about the nursery debacle what with the fear, fuss and kerfuffle of being whisked off to hospital, but it didn't take long for the whole nightmare to come flooding back and for me to realise that my problems were by no means over.
In fact, they were just beginning.
When we got home, Rupert refused to talk about any of it and insisted I went straight to bed. I didn't think there was any way I would sleep with all of the half-formed, flashing images which were tumbling around in my mind but, whether it was the exhaustion from the panic attack, the sedatives or simply the safe feeling of being tucked up in my own bed by Rupert, I was out for the count in minutes and slept for fourteen hours straight.
By the time I surfaced the following morning, breakfast was ready laid on the table – a big fruit salad, fresh orange juice and a pot of green tea. Rupert had taken another day off work and had been busy. I wondered again what I had done to deserve someone like him but had a moment of doubt when I thought about how much I depended on him; as household provider, father to Sam, lover, confidant and the only real friend I had left. Was that healthy?
Breakfast was only the beginning. Like all men who've been clever, good boys, he was eager to share all of his achievements.
'OK, Fabi, I've been busy and things aren't so bad. Shall I tell you?'
I sat down, poured myself a cup of tea and managed half a smile. 'Go ahead. It seems I'm in invalid mode again, so I might as well stick with the programme.'
'Yes, that's a good plan. It won't last, so enjoy it while you can.' Rupert sat down opposite me and plonked an A4 pad onto the table. 'Right, well, first of all, you've got an appointment to see Dr Mayhew at eleven-thirty.'
'Wow. Not easy to get on two hours notice.'
'True, but I was persuasive.'
'I'm impressed. So what else have you done that's so amazingly clever?'
'I spoke to Mrs Stanton and she's agreed to put Sam top of the list for next term. It's ninety-nine per cent certain he'll have a place at the beginning of September.'
'Oh my God. That is incredible. After yesterday's performance, I'm surprised she wants anything to do with us, or rather with me. I suppose you've checked the emails?'
Rupert lifted his head from his papers. 'Yes. And the call history on your phone. I'm afraid it all matches with what Mrs Stanton said, but I don't want you to worry about that right now. Let's just focus on getting you well. I was so scared yesterday. I thought I was going to lose you.'
'Well, the way I'm going, you'd all be better off without me anyway,' I said, looking deep into the brown whirlpool of my tea. I could feel my voice cr
acking as the memories rushed in. 'I can't believe this is happening again. I was so sure it was all over.'
Rupert pulled his chair next to mine and took hold of my hands. 'Don't be an idiot,' he said. 'We wouldn't know what to do without you. You know that. Anyway, the last bit of the puzzle is that my mother's agreed to look after Sam until September while you're at work and I'll be back in time to help in the evenings. That way you'll be able to relax and concentrate on finding your way in the new job.'
I couldn't hold back the tears any longer and buried my face into his shoulder, squeezing him close with all my strength.
'Thank you, darling,' I sobbed. 'Thank you.'
I wasn't tempted to say what was lurking at the back of my mind, which was that Virginia had got what she wanted after all. No surprises there.
Rupert hadn't quite finished. 'One more thing. I know you're keen to start the new job and we could certainly use the money, but you have to promise me that your health will come first. If the GP says you should wait, you have to listen. OK?'
'OK, va bene, caro. Prometto che.'
The Slippery Slope
The power of knowing where someone is, and where they're going to be in the future, cannot be underestimated. It allows the hacker to know when it is safe to break into a home or office or alternatively to plan ahead, to lie in wait for the victim, and to spy on them directly.
"How much is your Life Worth? Protecting your Identity in a Digital World." JJ Martin, Insight Business Press 2015
I'd always thought that "absence makes the heart grow fonder" was a ridiculous cliché but, for any young parent experiencing their first days back at work, it hits the nail clean on the head. Having completed three days at my new job, I found myself loving every moment of my first full day back at home with Sam.
My attention and focus had shifted – turned about somehow – so that I was able to concentrate on enjoying all of the little amusements and pleasures being with a young child can provide, rather than merely surviving the onslaught of demands and counting the hours until bedtime and wine o'clock. The contrast probably wouldn't continue to be as bright as this, but it was great while it lasted.
Being back in an office had been a shock to the system, but I would get over that soon enough and, after what had happened a year earlier, and again the previous week, I was amazed and grateful to have finally made it back to the real world. I'd become more and more certain that everything was conspiring against me to ensure I would never get there.
Following my terrifying panic attack and the whole nursery business, I'd assumed starting work was out of the question. If something like that could happen to me out of the blue, how could I expect to hold down a responsible job?
This time, it had been more than a simple mistake or trick of my imagination – there was some other secret, hidden person inside of me, writing emails and making phone calls on my behalf.
Unless it wasn't a person inside of me, but was actually someone else? A real person who was trying to drive me insane, like in that old black-and-white film. I couldn't imagine who would do that, or for that matter, why and how? Virginia was the only possible candidate. She definitely had it in for me. But it was a ridiculous idea; thinking crazy, paranoid thoughts wasn't going to help me in any way.
I'd been expecting my GP to prescribe a strict regime of rest and isolation, to warn against taking on any potentially stressful responsibilities and certainly to advise against starting a new job after almost three years out of the market.
I suppose I needed to accept that my judgement was always going to be wrong. Dr Mayhew had been kind and sympathetic but didn't seem particularly worried. She'd said it was not unusual to have a relapse of the kind of symptoms which I'd experienced before, but there was no reason to assume that it was anything other than an isolated incident for the time being.
With everything so fresh and raw in my mind, I hadn't been so convinced it was a one-off but, when the person in authority was telling you what you want to hear, there seemed to be little point in arguing the toss. Dr Mayhew booked me a follow-up appointment for two weeks later, upped my dose of Fluoxetine and that was that.
Rupert was being incredible as always, his strong arms holding everything together, but Virginia seemed even colder and more distant. I could see the almost-physical effort she needed to avoid saying 'I told you so' and her smug martyr act – as she took up her burden of helping us out by looking after Sam – was so rammed full of hypocrisy, it almost made me scream.
It did get us out of a bind though. A bind which was entirely of my creation, so I understood I needed to button up and use my lips for polite, grateful smiles instead of screams, regardless of what I thought or felt inside. Saying anything to Rupert was out of the question; he was even more defensive of his mother than usual, and completely blind to the way she manipulated everybody to get her own way.
Luckily I had a friend in my diary. It didn't answer back, judge me or make me feel guilty when I let rip with my honest feelings and frustrations. Even there, I was a bit conflicted and needed to put my feelings in context. Virginia often made me uncontrollably angry, and I knew she really was a self-centred cow, but I was grateful for the help. I'd needed to get back a small slice of normal life, and I wouldn't have been able to do it without her.
Why did everything need to be so bloody complicated?
Dr Mayhew had been much too relaxed about my situation and I could only see two possible explanations. Either she was simply out of her depth or she was underplaying everything to keep me calm. Was she talking to Rupert behind my back? I would need to keep my eyes and ears open.
She had mentioned one thing which was new and different; she'd suggested I join some sort of self-help group, either online or actually face-to-face. There were a number of links to official monitored groups on the health service website as well as a load of private groups on Facebook.
Her advice was that they all had their own strengths and weaknesses and I should try a few before deciding which one was right.
I opened a thread in one of the first groups I stumbled upon and realised that it wasn't going to be easy:
Sara: 24-04-2016 : 23:17 (new therapist)
Change is hard. My T is retiring around the end of this month. 7 years w/him. the Transition has been a main topic during T for a couple of months.
I didn't think it was going to be a big deal. But I had my first real spike of fear this weekend, listening to inside talking, while doing the dishes. I suddenly remembered T is going and BAM.
I think he'll be relieved actually. My T, I mean. He's been worried that I don't seem to be expressing attachment.
Apart from the fact that I didn't have any idea what she was talking about, there was something deeply disturbing in the cold, disinterested tone of her posting. I trusted Dr Mayhew's advice, but I wasn't one of these people.
They weren't all as bad as that one, but most of the forums were still very strange places to be; alien worlds with disembodied voices talking in their own language and code: acronyms and labels; lists of drugs; things that worked; things that didn't work (more often); sad, hopeless life stories of abuse and neglect and, inevitably, soppy, dippy images of calm, tranquil places tagged with upbeat, greeting-card messages of hope and happiness.
This wasn't me. These people were really ill and many of their stories were heartbreaking. It wasn't me but, like lowbrow reality TV, I felt a voyeuristic compulsion to know more about many of these characters.
I spent hour after hour trawling through discussion after discussion and, with a bit of focus and translation, I slowly came to realise that, behind the strangeness, many of the posters were actually ordinary people with real medical issues. Not aliens or raving psychopaths after all.
I told Rupert what I was doing but everything about the subject made him mumble excuses and look at the floor so I didn't get a chance to go into details. I suppose the normal 'me' would have been even more uncomfortable and cynical than he was,
but by then I was desperate and prepared to try anything.
Signing up as a member of a group was a big step – for starters, was the group really as confidential as promised? – but the private forums were apparently much more interesting and I wanted to get involved and see where it took me.
Fabi: 17-05-2016 : 11:30 (memory lapses)
Hi everybody. First time, so please bear with me.
I've been suffering with memory 'glitches' for over a year. I see things which aren't there or do things without remembering I've done them – nothing huge (yet!) but always self-destructive in some way.
I went to a counsellor a year ago and it seemed to have got better, but now it's back with a vengeance and I just had a pretty horrible panic attack.
My GP doesn't seem too bothered and no-one in my family is able to help, but I have a little boy of two and am worried about him.
What should I do?
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John: 18-05-2016 : 06:47 (memory lapses)
Sounds a bit like Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) to me. Do you ever feel like there's someone else inside you? Most people with DID have lots of different 'parts' but not all. I've only got one other and she only appears from time to time. When she does, I always need to clear up some sort of mess after her.
I am always looking over my shoulder and haven't been able to trust anyone for years. It makes life almost impossible for me sometimes.
Have you spoken to a therapist?
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Fabi: 18-05-2016 : 11:34 (memory lapses)
Thanks John. That sounds a bit more extreme than what I'm going through, but I'll do a bit more digging.