All of Me

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All of Me Page 27

by Kim Noble


  Emergency procedures went into overdrive and doctors managed to get her back but she was in a lot of pain as they transferred her to a ward. The consultant realised the end was near and prescribed morphine, the biggest painkiller hospitals have.

  Hayley was at Mum’s bedside throughout – which is why I missed all of it – watching her scream and writhe in agony. All she could do was watch the clock and wait for the next dose of drugs to come.

  When a junior doctor came along he fiddled around with his medication cart so much that Hayley became nervous.

  ‘She needs her morphine.’

  The doctor looked shocked. ‘I think Ibuprofen will do it, thank you.’

  Hayley flew at him. ‘Morphine!’ she screamed. ‘She needs morphine!’

  At that moment there was a switch and Salome came out. She saw her mother lying in bed, ailing. And then she heard the doctor’s words: ‘I’m not giving her morphine, that would kill her!’

  That was enough for Salome. As far as she was concerned, when Mum died on Boxing Day a short while later, it was this other woman’s fault. Hayley had poisoned her with morphine. Hayley had killed Salome’s mother, a ‘good woman’.

  Lorraine corroborated everything. She had been at the bedside at the time, too upset to pick up on the different personalities coming into play before her.

  After years of hearing about her, I was glad to hear that Salome was filmed for our Oprah show. That was a revelation. It was just as Aimee and Dr Laine had described. A whirlwind of harmless anxiety and then, before you knew it, she’d stormed out the door and switched again.

  Switches can be random or they can be defensive – for example, when Ken tries to take the body into the men’s toilet – or they can be triggered by other visual stimuli. Salome will always come out in the presence of a church. She can smell them. We visited one on holiday once. No sooner had we stepped through the door than Salome came out. Aimee said it was lovely. There was no shouting, no accusations, just pure, quiet, respectful worship.

  Speaking of triggers and, I suppose, of the body protecting us, there is another personality who only comes out in the presence of water. It’s only since I began to understand DID that I realised something quite staggering: I’ve never had a bath.

  I am fifty and I have never had a bath!

  I’ve never had a shower, been swimming or dipped my toe in the sea. I’ve run a bath – I’ve run hundreds of them – but when I think about it, I’ve never actually stepped in. I know about bathing and washing and swimming and hygiene and I know I’ve always intended to bathe and, more importantly, I know I’m always clean! So it’s amazing that I’ve never experienced it and, what’s more, the body had managed to block my mind for so long from ever questioning it. But it did. All aqua time belongs to someone who calls herself the Spirit of the Water!

  A few years ago, when I was just emerging as the dominant personality, Dr Laine saw how seriously I was taking my responsibilities. I felt very uncomfortable letting Aimee out of my sight. As a consequence, we didn’t stray too far from home. By that time, after so many years, Dr Laine was like a therapy grandma as much as my therapist. She said, ‘When the other children at school say what they did in the holidays, what does Aimee say?’

  Not much, I realised. We never went anywhere.

  So Dr Laine decided we would have a break. Initially she was upset on our behalf that while some places would take Aimee for a break or some would take me, nowhere wanted to help us together. She was also worried that in protecting Aimee from being outside in a strange place with ‘me’ not there, I might just spend the holiday in a hotel room. Ever inventive and supportive, Dr Laine booked a weekend on the south coast for not only me and Aimee, but also herself and her husband.

  I don’t know what Dr Laine was expecting but I’m sure it wasn’t to be running around like old mother hen. The second I saw the sea there was a switch. Out came Spirit of the Water and she just made a beeline for the shore. Shoes off, socks off – thank God she stopped there. As soon as she found her swimming costume, that was it, there was no keeping her out.

  The problem was, of course, from Dr Laine’s point of view: not all of the personalities can swim. What if one of the children appeared?

  I don’t think that would happen. The body wouldn’t let itself drown. Spirit of the Water wouldn’t let that happen. What we couldn’t guarantee, however, was that Spirit of the Water would look after Aimee, so poor Dr Laine spent the weekend watching us like a hawk. Afterwards she said she was the one who needed a holiday!

  There’s always a swimming pool or ocean at the heart of any break so I can predict that Spirit will put in a few appearances then. I joined a gym recently and while I go along to use the running machine, Spirit likes to take Aimee swimming. One sniff of chlorine and she’s off with Aimee in tow.

  I don’t know how old Spirit is but as soon as she’s near water she’s like a child. I can always tell when she’s had a bath with Aimee because of the mess on the floor. Aimes says she always jumps in, starts splashing and sings, ‘I’m Spirit – Spirit of the Water’.

  Occasionally it’s more than the bathroom that gets a soaking. Dr Laine’s surgery is in north London so I decided once to drive there via Regent’s Park. By the time I reached Dr Laine’s I was dripping wet.

  ‘What on Earth happened to you?’

  I switched back at that second, as nonplussed as her. A few minutes later, however, Spirit of the Water came forward. She’d seen the fountain in the park, pulled the car over onto the verge, then dived in. I’m sure she must have had a blast but the thought of all those people seeing my body doing that makes me cringe. I won’t be going back there for a while!

  I don’t know if we’ll ever get to the root of Spirit of the Water’s story, but she seems playful and cavalier. By contrast, many of the child personalities are anything but carefree, despite their age. It makes me so sad to think of them and their tragic, tormented lives. The worst thing is knowing they will be looking for their Mummy and Daddy. Imagine enduring what they’ve gone through and not being able to have your parents wrap a comforting arm round your shoulders. I wish there was something we could do for them. I suppose the less they come out the better.

  Mum dying is a problem for lots of them, not just Salome. Judy is stuck at fifteen – which the body would have been back in 1976 when Mum was alive and well. So even now, decades later, she’s always looking for her mother. She knows she can’t have gone far. It’s just a case of being patient.

  She’ll come home soon.

  This explains why she’s always so rude about me. Judy thinks I’m a terrible mother because as far as she’s concerned I’m always abandoning Aimee with her. When you realise Judy would give everything to see her mother again you can see how this must twist the knife.

  Another child in pain stands out. For a start, his name is Diabalus – we can make our own assumptions from even that. I remember asking Dr Laine what she knew about him.

  ‘I know he can’t speak English.’

  ‘Really? How does he communicate then?’

  ‘Through letters – written in Latin!’

  I hadn’t seen that coming.

  ‘But I don’t know any Latin. I’ve never had a single lesson.’

  ‘Well, Diabalus has learnt it from somewhere.’

  Dr Laine doesn’t speak more than basic Latin either but she does have some French and fortunately the young boy spoke that. She seemed rather relieved by that. I, on the other hand, was paralysed with wonder.

  How can he learn two other languages without my knowing a single word?

  Is it really possible the body attended Latin and French classes without my knowing anything about it?

  Stranger things have happened.

  *

  Coming to terms with the personalities was awkward but fairly straightforward. Empathising with them was a different proposition. It was like being told stories about people I didn’t know. Or reading about strangers in th
e paper. Some of them sounded interesting, some of them seemed like people I’d like to meet. Others less so. Either way, it was all theoretical, conversational and, as hard as I tried to get involved, very little to do with me. I just wasn’t connecting as much as I, or Dr Laine, hoped. And then, quite by accident, I discovered a new way to meet them all.

  Painting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I am not Kim Noble

  Perfect, Bonny thought as she finished wrapping the large box. I can’t wait to see her face when she gets this.

  Mothers like nothing more than spoiling their children but on birthdays you can really go all out. Aimee had been asking for a pink typewriter for ages and Bonny had always said, ‘No, we can’t afford it.’ Aimee knew they weren’t the richest of families but, even so. A lot of her school friends had one. Why did she have to be the odd one out?

  Of course, what Aimee didn’t know is that Bonny had rushed out immediately and bought it for her daughter’s sixth birthday. Just a few days now until the big surprise.

  In the end, though, it was Bonny who was surprised.

  A metallic clattering noise the following Saturday had been bothering Bonny for the entire time it had taken to prepare dinner. In the end she couldn’t bear it any longer.

  What on Earth is going on up there? she wondered, marching up the stairs.

  As she reached Aimee’s room the noise grew louder. It sounded like tiny little hammers punching away: thud, thud, thud.

  No idea, Bonny thought, and opened the door.

  Her mouth fell open as she stared at Aimee typing with one-fingered gusto on a shiny pink typewriter.

  Bonny couldn’t hide her anger. ‘Who said you could open that?’

  The wind knocked out of her sails, the little girl could barely spit out an answer.

  ‘I-I-I …’

  ‘Yes?’ Bonny asked sternly. ‘I can wait all night.’

  ‘I was out with Ken this afternoon,’ Aimee managed, ‘and he bought it for me.’ She was close to tears. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Bonny didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘No, darling, there’s nothing wrong. Nothing at all.’

  Becoming the dominant personality was a daunting prospect. Of course, I wanted to spend as much time ‘out’ as possible but with that came the responsibilities of keeping the body’s day-to-day life on track, which in turn would prove we were capable of looking after our daughter. Looking after Aimee was the first thing I thought of when I woke up and usually the last thing at night – assuming I was the one who took the body to bed! Most of the time they were routine upkeep thoughts: must buy this, must do that, must take her there. Every so often, though, the dark cloud hanging over our happiness as a family would return and I would remember:

  Aimee only lives here on a ‘placement’.

  Just writing it now makes my blood boil. Back then, knowing each check-up was due after six months made me feel even worse.

  It’s not in my nature to make a fuss, to bang a drum or feel comfortable being the centre of attention. But if that were the difference between being treated as a foster parent to my own daughter and winning her back, then I would have to bite the bullet. After some research on the internet I made a call to a lawyer and by the end of the day wheels were put in motion. You’d think that would have made me feel better but, try as hard as I could to relax, I felt worse than ever. Again and again the same idea kept floating into my waking thoughts:

  What if I lose? What if I’ve just made it worse?

  In the early days Dr Laine was concerned that the pressure of dealing with everything on top of realising I had a daughter to care for might be too much. The last thing she wanted was my retreating – like Kim, Hayley and Bonny – and chaos to descend again, so she scrabbled around for as much support as possible. When the official channels ran dry she looked closer to home.

  Debbie McCoy was a trainee art therapist doing an internship at Springfield Hospital. Dr Laine suggested she might like to spend some time with us as a support worker. Debbie would find it useful for her studies and we would benefit from having a friendly ear. I welcomed any help so I agreed – although if I’d known she was an art therapist I might not have been so keen. My experiences at San Martino’s and Arbours hadn’t exactly lit my fuse.

  Debbie started coming over a few days a week and we’d just have tea and chat or watch television. It was nice to have a break from worrying about Aimee on my own. I could relax knowing that if there was a switch and one of the kiddie personalities came out, there was still an adult in the house. These days I’m confident that all the alters have Aimee’s best interests at heart but I didn’t know that then.

  We were sitting in the front room one night and Debbie asked Aimee if she liked painting.

  ‘I’m not very good at it.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Debbie said. ‘Everyone can paint.’

  I think I must have snorted at that because Debbie looked at me. ‘Yes, Patricia, even you can paint.’

  You didn’t see my efforts at Arbours!

  Debbie disappeared upstairs and came down with an old roll of wallpaper we’d finished with and a pot of Aimee’s poster paints.

  ‘Come on then, let’s see what you can do.’

  It was all a bit of fun, splashing colours and shapes on the back of the wallpaper, and Debbie never let on that she was studying art therapy. I didn’t really get any pleasure out of my results but it was just nice to be doing something while we chatted away about the usual old nonsense. Best of all was noticing how happy Aimee was for us to be doing something together. There’s no replacement for that bond.

  I don’t think Aimee or I looked likely to win any prizes but we kept it up for a few weeks or so because without the pressure of therapy I realised it really was a bit of fun. There are worse ways to spend an evening than doodling away with a glass of wine in your hand, and maybe the telly on in the background for Aimee while we giggled and gossiped. The only downside was the cleaning up every day. At the end of the session we’d wash the brushes and pots up and leave our latest masterpieces on the table to dry.

  Coming down the next morning and seeing our work in the cold light of day was always a bit disappointing. I pinned a few of Aimee’s up on the wall but mine went straight in the trash. No one needed to see those again.

  One day, though, I trotted down ready to chuck mine as usual and I stopped. There were more pictures than I remembered – and some of them were very good. Distinctive lines, striking colours and very vivid, detailed scenes.

  I don’t remember Debbie leaving these.

  I checked my watch. Had there been a switch? Was it actually evening, not morning? Had Debbie brought these paintings to show us?

  No, it’s eight o’clock. The sound of Aimee thundering around upstairs as she got ready for school confirmed it.

  So when had Debbie brought these? I picked one up and studied the small figures in it.

  And why would she bring such disturbing images into my house?

  Realising that the other personalities had started to paint was a complete shock. Aimee and I had only picked up the brushes for something sociable to do. Neither of us at that stage showed any aptitude for it – although I was beginning to enjoy the soothing act of actually painting. And yet here were a couple of pictures that were actually very good.

  First a personality who can speak Latin and French. Now one who can paint!

  Every day with DID there are new and wonderful surprises.

  The only problem was the content. I really wanted to show Aimee what had happened but the last thing I wanted her to see was this. I couldn’t be sure but it looked to me like a picture of a child being bullied by a tall man. I rolled the picture up and thought, I’ll see what Debbie thinks.

  Over the next few nights several more paintings appeared. There were a few more unpleasant scenes, which I kept from Aimee, but also some nice ones too.

  ‘It looks like there’s more tha
n one of them doing it,’ Debbie suggested. ‘Maybe you should show them to Dr Laine?’

  Of course! I rolled them up ready to present them at our next session. Now it was Dr Laine’s turn to play detective.

  The next morning I made a point of coming down early enough to intercept any paintings I didn’t want Aimee to see. I opened the dining room door and couldn’t help gasping.

  What the hell’s happened here?

  There was paint all over the table, and on the chairs and on the floor. Everything was speckled in red and black and white. And, my God, look at the walls!

  Where’s that bloody dog? It had to be him. Somehow he’d got the paints open and had a field day chewing them.

  ‘Arthur!’

  Then I took a closer look at the table. There, on a strip of wallpaper as usual, was an incredible sort of Jackson Pollock dot print drying. Arthur was a clever dog – but not even he was up to this.

  I examined the picture. It was entirely abstract but it wasn’t random. Someone had put a lot of thought into it.

  Two personalities who can paint, I thought. Maybe I should get practising. I don’t want to be left behind.

  Over the next couple of nights, and days when Aimee was at school, more pictures appeared. Some were disturbing and obviously painted by the first personality. Others were red, white and black abstracts, so I knew where they’d come from. Then another style appeared. These were people, quite intricately shaped, so much so in fact they seemed almost skeletal. This time there was a note next to the work. It was by Bonny.

  Incredible, I thought. Three different people and three starkly individual styles.

  Knowing that Bonny had recently told Dr Laine that her brain was ‘scrambled’, it was comforting to see she had discovered an outlet. I didn’t know what she was trying to say with her figures but I was sure there was a message. That, as I recalled, was the point of art therapy: to express your feelings, memories and fears without words. (Later, Bonny painted one piece which I had no trouble interpreting: ‘I’m Only Another Personality’. It tells you how she was feeling when she accepted DID and perhaps began to fade.)

 

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