A Special Relationship

by Douglas Kennedy

  ‘Your husband said he’d do his best, and was wondering how you were doing.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him anything about me wetting the…’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Nurse Howe said with a small laugh, and then informed me that I shouldn’t get too cosy right now, as Mr Hughes (having been alerted to my condition) had ordered an ultrasound prior to his arrival. Alarm bells began to ring between my ears.

  ‘Then he does believe that the baby’s in danger?’ I said.

  ‘Thinking that does you no good …’

  ‘I have to know if there’s a risk that I might mis—’

  ‘There is a risk, if you keep getting yourself in an anxious state. The high blood pressure isn’t just due to physiological factors. It’s also related to stress. Which is why you fell on your face last night.’

  ‘But if I’m just suffering from high blood pressure, why is he ordering an ultrasound?’

  ‘He just wants to rule out …’

  ‘Rule out what?’ I demanded.

  ‘It’s normal routine.’

  This was hardly comforting. All during the ultrasound, I kept staring at the vague outline on the foetal monitor, asking the technician (an Australian woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty-three) if she could see if anything was untoward.

  ‘No worries,’ she said. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘But the baby … ?’

  ‘There’s no need to get yourself so …’

  But I didn’t hear the last part of that sentence, as the itching suddenly started again. Only this time, the area most affected was my midsection and my pelvis … exactly where the ultrasound gel had been smeared. Within the space of a minute, the itch was unbearable, and I found myself telling the technician that I needed to scratch my belly.

  ‘Not a problem,’ she said, removing the large ultrasound wand which she had been applying to my stomach. Immediately, I began to tear at my skin. The technician looked on, wide-eyed.

  ‘Take it slow, eh?’ she said.

  ‘I can’t. It’s driving me mental.’

  ‘But you’re going to hurt yourself … and the baby’

  I pulled my hands away. The itching intensified. I bit so hard on my lip that it nearly bled. I snapped my eyes shut, but they began to sting. Suddenly, my face was awash with tears – the action of shutting my eyes provoking all the bruised muscles around the upper part of my face.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the technician asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wait here for a sec,’ she said. ‘And whatever you do, don’t scratch your belly again.’

  It seemed to take an hour for her to get back to me – though, when I glanced at the clock, only five minutes had elapsed. But by the time that the technician returned with Nurse Howe, I was gripping the sides of the bed, on the verge of screaming.

  ‘Tell me …’ Nurse Howe said. When I explained that I wanted to grate my stomach to pieces – or do anything else to make the itching stop – she examined me, then reached for a phone and issued some orders. She leaned over and clasped my arm.

  ‘Help’s on the way.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Give you something to stop the itch.’

  ‘But say it’s all in my head,’ I said, my voice verging towards mild hysteria.

  ‘You think it’s in your head?’ Nurse Howe asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If you’re scratching like that, it’s not in your head.’

  ‘You sure?’

  She smiled and said, ‘You’re not the first pregnant lady to get an itch like this.’

  An assistant nurse arrived, pushing a tray of medication. She cleaned off the ultrasound gel. Then, using what looked like a sterile paint brush, she covered my stomach with a pink chalky substance – calamine lotion. It instantly alleviated the itch. Nurse Howe handed me two pills and a small cup of water.

  ‘What are these?’ I asked.

  ‘A mild sedative.’

  ‘I don’t need a sedative.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be groggy when my husband gets here.’

  ‘This won’t make you groggy. It will just calm you down.’

  ‘But I am calm.’

  Nurse Howe said nothing. Instead she deposited the two pills in my open palm, and handed me a glass of water. I reluctantly downed the pills and allowed myself to be helped into a wheelchair and transported back to the ward.

  Tony arrived just before eight with a few newspapers under his arm and a grim bunch of flowers. The pills had taken full effect – and though Nurse Howe didn’t lie about the lack of grogginess, she didn’t say anything about the way they deadened all emotional agitation and left me feeling flat, benumbed, muffled … but also very aware of the way Tony was trying to mask his disquiet at the state of me.

  ‘Do I look that awful?’ I asked quietly as he approached the bed.

  ‘Stop talking rubbish,’ he said, leaning over to give me a peck on the head.

  ‘You should’ve seen the other guy’ I said, then heard myself laugh a hollow laugh.

  ‘After the way you pitched forward last night, I expected much worse.’

  ‘That’s comforting to know. Why didn’t you call me today?’

  ‘Because, according to the ward sister, you weren’t with us until after three.’

  ‘But after three …’

  ‘Conferences, deadlines, my pages to get out. It’s called work.’

  ‘You mean, like me? I’m work to you now, right?’

  Tony took a deep annoyed breath; a way of informing me that he wasn’t enjoying the route this conversation was taking. But despite my flattened drug-induced state, I still continued to play vexed. Because, right now, I felt so completely furious at everything and everyone – most especially, at the diffident man sitting on the edge of my bed, who had gotten me into this mess in the first place by knocking me up. The selfish shit. The little fucker. The …

  And I thought these pills were supposed to smooth everything right out …

  ‘You could ask me if the baby’s all right,’ I said, my voice a paragon of tranquillized calm.

  Another of Tony’s exasperated intakes of breath. No doubt, he’s counting the minutes until he can flee this place, and rid himself of me for another night. Then, if his luck holds out, I might just fall on my face again tomorrow, and I’ll be incarcerated for another couple of days.

  ‘I have been worried about you, you know,’ he said.

  ‘Of course I know. Because you so radiate worry, Tony.’

  ‘Is this what’s called “post-traumatic shock”?’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. Try to write me off as Little Ms Loony Tunes. Rue the day you met me.’

  ‘What the hell do they have you on?’

  A voice behind Tony said, ‘Valium, since you asked. And from what I’ve just overheard, it is not having the desired effect.’

  Mr Desmond Hughes stood at the edge of the bed, my chart in his hand, his bi-focals resting on the extreme edge of his nose. I asked, ‘Is the baby all right, doctor?’

  Mr Hughes didn’t look up from the chart.

  ‘And a very good evening to you, Mrs Goodchild. And yes, all seems fine.’ He turned towards Tony. ‘You must be Mr Goodchild.’

  ‘Tony Hobbs.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Hughes said, the only acknowledgment of Tony’s name being the slightest of nods. Then he turned back to me and asked, ‘And how are we feeling tonight? Bit of a ropey twenty-four hours, I gather.’

  ‘Tell me about the baby, doctor.’

  ‘From what I could see on the ultrasound scans, no damage was done to the baby. Now I gather you were admitted suffering from cholestasis.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Chronic itching. Not uncommon among pregnant women … and it often arrives in tandem with pre-eclampsia, which, as you may know is …’

  ‘High blood pressure?’

  ‘Very
good … though, clinically speaking, we prefer to call it a hypertension disorder. Now the good news is that pre-eclampsia is often characterized by a high level of uric acid. But your urine sample was relatively normal – which is why I consider you not to be suffering from pre-eclampsia. But your blood pressure is dangerously high. If left unchecked, it can be somewhat treacherous for both the mother and the child. Which is why I am putting you on a beta-blocker to stabilize your blood pressure, as well as an antihistamine called Piriton to relieve the cholestasis. And I would also like you to take 5mgs of Valium three times a day.’

  ‘I’m not taking Valium again.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because I don’t like it.’

  ‘There are lots of things in life we don’t like, Mrs Goodchild … even though they are beneficial …’

  ‘You mean, like spinach …?’

  Tony coughed another of his nervous coughs. ‘Uh, Sally …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If Mr Hughes thinks that Valium will help you …’

  ‘Help me?’ I said. ‘All it does is gag me.’

  ‘Really?’ Mr Hughes said.

  ‘Very funny,’ I said.

  ‘I wasn’t trying to be amusing, Mrs Goodchild …’

  ‘It’s Ms Goodchild,’ I said. ‘He’s Hobbs, I’m Goodchild.’

  A quick exchange of looks between Tony and the doctor. Oh God, why am I acting so weird?

  ‘So sorry, Ms Goodchild. And, of course, I can’t force you to take a substance that you don’t want to take. At the same time, however, it is my clinical opinion that it will alleviate a certain degree of stress …’

  ‘Whereas it’s my on the spot opinion that the Valium is doing bad things to my head. So, no… I’m not touching the stuff again.’

  ‘That is your prerogative – but do understand, I do think it is inadvisable.’

  ‘Noted,’ I said quietly.

  ‘But you will take the Piriton?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s something at least,’ Hughes said. ‘And we’ll continue to treat the cholestasis with calamine lotion.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said again.

  ‘Oh, one final thing,’ Hughes said. ‘You must understand that high blood pressure is a most dangerous condition – and one which could cause you to lose the child. Which is why, until you have brought this pregnancy to term, you must essentially put yourself under no physical or emotional strain whatsoever.’

  ‘By which you mean …?’ I asked.

  ‘By which I mean that you cannot work until after—’

  I cut him off.

  ‘Can’t work? I’m a journalist – a correspondent. I’ve got responsibilities …’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Hughes said, interrupting me. ‘Responsibilities to yourself and to your child. But though we will be able to partially treat your condition chemically, the fact of the matter is that only complete bed rest will ensure that you stay out of jeopardy. And that is why we’ll be keeping you in hospital for the duration …’

  I stared at him, stunned.

  ‘The duration of my pregnancy?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But that’s nearly three weeks from now. And I can’t just give up work …’

  Tony put a steadying hand on my shoulder, stopping me from saying anything more.

  ‘I’ll see you on my rounds tomorrow, Ms Goodchild,’ Hughes said. With another quick nod to Tony, he moved on to the next patient.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said.

  Tony just shrugged. ‘We’ll deal with it,’ he said. Then he glanced at his watch, and mentioned that he had to get back to the paper now.

  ‘But I thought you’d already put your pages to bed?’

  ‘I never said that. Anyway, while you were unconscious, the Russian Deputy Prime Minister was rumbled for his involvement in a kiddie porn ring, and a little war’s broken out among rival factions in Sierra Leone …’

  ‘You have a man on the scene in Freetown?’

  ‘A stringer. Jenkins. Not bad, for a lightweight. But if the thing blows up into a full-scale war, I think we’ll have to send one of our own.’

  ‘Yourself, perhaps?’

  ‘In my dreams.’

  ‘If you want to go, go. Don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, believe me.’

  His tone was mild, but pointed. It was the first time he’d directly articulated his feelings of entrapment. Or, at least, that’s how it came over to me.

  ‘Well, thank you for making that perfectly clear,’ I said.

  ‘You know what I’m saying here.’

  ‘No, actually, I don’t.’

  ‘I’m the Foreign Editor – and foreign editors don’t dispatch themselves off to cover a pissy little firefight in Sierra Leone. But they do have to go back to the office to get their pages to bed.’

  ‘So go then. Don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘That’s the second time you’ve said that tonight.’

  He placed his gift of newspapers and wilting flowers on the bedside table. Then he gave me another perfunctory kiss on the forehead.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘I certainly hope so.’

  ‘I’ll call you first thing in the morning, and see if I can get over here before work.’

  But he didn’t call me. When I rang the house at eight-thirty, there was no answer. When I rang the paper at nine-thirty, Tony wasn’t at his desk. And when I tried his mobile, I was connected with his voice mail. So I left a terse message: ‘I’m sitting here, already bored out of my mind, and I’m just wondering: where the hell are you? And why didn’t you answer the phone? Please call me ASAP, as I really would like to know the whereabouts of my husband.’

  Around two hours later, the bedside phone rang. Tony sounded as neutral as Switzerland.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Sorry I wasn’t available earlier.’

  ‘You know, I called you at home at eight-thirty this morning, and discovered that nobody was home.’

  ‘What’s today?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘And what do I do every Wednesday?’

  I didn’t need to furnish him an answer, because he knew that I knew the answer: he had breakfast with the editor of the paper. A breakfast at the Savoy, which always started at nine. Which meant that Tony inevitably left home around eight. Idiot, idiot, idiot … why are you looking for trouble?

  ‘I’m sorry’ I said.

  ‘Not to worry,’ he said, his tone still so detached, almost uninvolved. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Still feeling like shit. But the itch is under control, thanks to the calamine lotion.’

  ‘That’s something, I guess. When are visiting hours?’

  ‘Right now would work.’

  ‘Well, I’m supposed to be lunching with the chap who skippers the Africa section at the F.O. But I can cancel.’

  Immediately I wondered: now why didn’t he tell me about this lunch yesterday? Maybe he didn’t want to let me know, then and there, that he wouldn’t be able to visit in the morning. Maybe the lunch was a last-minute thing, given the situation in Sierra Leone. Or maybe … oh god, I don’t know. That was the growing problem with Tony: I didn’t know. He seemed to live behind a veil. Or was that just my hypertension fatigue kicking in, not to mention my cholestasis, and everything else that was now part and parcel of this wondrous pregnancy? Anyway, I wasn’t about to raise the emotional temperature again by kicking up a stink about his inability to get in here immediately. Because I wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘No need,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘You certain about that?’ he asked me.

  ‘I’ll phone Margaret, see if she can pay me a visit this afternoon.’

  ‘Anything I can bring you?’

  ‘Just pick up something nice at Marks and Spencer’s.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be too late.’

  ‘That’s good.’

&
nbsp; Naturally, Margaret was at the hospital within a half-hour of my call. She tried not to register shock when she saw me, but didn’t succeed.

  ‘I just need to know one thing,’ she said.

  ‘No – Tony didn’t do this to me.’

  ‘You don’t have to protect him, you know.’

  ‘I’m not – honestly.’ Then I told her about my charming little interaction with Hughes, and how I refused to become a citizen of Valium Nation.

  ‘Damn right you should refuse that stuff,’ she said, ‘if it’s giving you the heebie-jeebies.’

  ‘Trust me to get aggressive on Valium.’

  ‘How did Tony handle all this?’

  ‘In a very English, very phlegmatic kind of way. Meanwhile, I’m quietly beginning to panic … not just at the thought of three weeks’ enforced bed rest in here, but also the realization that the paper isn’t going to like the fact that I’m out of action.’

  ‘Surely the Post can’t let you go?’

  ‘Want to put money on that? They’re financially strapped like every damn newspaper these days. Rumour has it that management has been thinking about cutting back on their foreign bureaus. And I’m certain that, with me out of the picture for the next few months, they’ll evict me without a moment’s thought.’

  ‘But surely they’ll have to give you some sort of a settlement?’

  ‘Not if I’m in London.’

  ‘You’re jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘No – I’m just being my usual Yankee realist self. Just as I also know that, between the mortgage and all the renovations, spare cash is going to be scarce.’

  ‘Well then, let me do something to make your life in hospital a little easier. Let me pay for a private room in here for the next couple of weeks.’

  ‘You’re allowed to upgrade to a private room?’

  ‘I did when I had my kids on the NHS. It’s not even that expensive. Around forty pounds a night tops.’

  ‘That’s still a lot of money over three weeks.’

  ‘Let me worry about that. The point is: you need to be as stress-free as possible right now … and being in a room on your own will certainly aid the process.’