by Alison Clink
‘I don’t think this place would suit me,’ he says from his position on the ground.
I begin to reassess the situation – once more. We are fooling ourselves. Adrian will not be able to live alone.
‘I shouldn’t have had that pint, I suppose,’ he admits. Or was it the wine? He feels dizzy when he stands up which is why he’s fallen in the first place. Another drop in blood pressure? We wait a few moments. He manages to get up with my support. We stand together. I hold him up by his arm as we look at the view that will be enjoyed by whoever eventually rents this flat. The canal, all the painted longboats, mysterious watery homes to the determinedly unconventional. The view is spectacular, the place lovely, and would be even better in sunshine. But the twenty or so steps mean this flat can hardly be classified as ground floor, and so we leave.
*
On the way back to St Vincent’s we stop at the shops as Adrian wants some Milk of Magnesia. I park near a chemist and he says he’ll get it. Not wanting to undermine his wishes I’m forced to watch as he staggers along, a pile of bones in sagging clothes, a cadaver in a Panama hat. He’s gone for ages but returns minus the Milk of Magnesia. He’s full of criticism for the girl who’d served him in the chemist.
‘She doesn’t know anything…Typical Somerset…’
I wonder if the girl could understand what he was asking for with his words swallowed up by his gravelly voice.
‘I’ll see if I can get some,’ I say. So as not to humiliate him by going in the same shop, I try Superdrug instead. On my way back to the car I notice Aniela walking towards me. This is the first time I’ve seen her out of uniform. She really is a lovely girl, petite with long blonde hair and that distinctively eastern European dress sense that doesn’t quite hit the mark. She sees me and although I want to say hello, she looks away. I don’t blame her, but I feel sorry if she’s feeling bad about what’s happened with Adrian – and I’m still not sure what did happen.
Back at St Vincent’s, I kiss Adrian goodbye and he staggers off with his plastic bag full of all his bits of paper, his application for Disability Living Allowance, his funeral guest list, and his Milk of Magnesia. How have I hardened myself to all this? I don’t know – but somehow I have.
In the evening Adrian sends me a text: Will need 1 of the girls 2 help me set up acer – never dun 1 b4. Red faced S.V, which is a reference to the new laptop I left in his room today.
Wednesday 8th August 2007
The eighth day of the eighth month. I’m not going to see Adrian today. Olivia from Dorothy House is visiting this afternoon, and the kids are taking him out this evening.
Adrian rings me in the morning. ‘St Vincent’s haven’t told Olivia about the all clear on the C.diff front. This means I won’t be going with her to visit Dorothy House where I might’ve been able to join a group of other cancer patients. I’m really beginning to hate all the staff here. I’m sure they’re trying to keep me here as long as possible. I reckon they need the money. Everything here’s falling apart and everyone who works here is incompetent.’
‘I suppose you could be right,’ I say. ‘Anyway, at least you’re going out tonight. Jack and Ed will be collecting you at seven.’
I phone Olivia’s office and confirm she is visiting later in the afternoon, but not taking him to Dorothy House. I email Jill Miller about the possibility of Adrian having a home massage, and she gets on the case straight away.
*
At nine I get a phone call from Jack from the pub.
‘Mum? Adrian’s still inside the pub with Ed and Willow but he’s left a sort of nappy type thing lying on the floor of my car. I don’t know what to do with it.’
‘Well, I’ve always thought those things are kind of incontinence pads,’ I tell him. ‘Adrian was using them when he had the C.diff bug, but best not to mention it to him now. I should just leave it.’
‘I didn’t want to embarrass him,’ Jack says.
‘How’s it going apart from that?’ I ask.
‘He isn’t eating much but he’s making the effort. In fact we ended up eating most of his leftovers!’ he laughs.
I think nothing more of the nappy pad.
*
Jack drops Ed off at home before he and Willow go back to her house. Ed walks into the kitchen looking pale.
‘Mum, I feel sick. I’m going to bed.’
‘Drink some water,’ I say running the tap for him. ‘How was Adrian tonight?’
‘After we’d finished the meal he told us he thinks he might have that hospital bug thing again.’
My heart sinks. Big time. I think of the nappy pad Jack mentioned. Surely this can’t be happening. This is cruelty piled upon more cruelty. I despair, not only for my brother but also I’m now rather concerned for my two sons and Willow who reportedly had been eating his leftovers.
‘He went to the toilet a couple of times when we were in the pub. He was in there for a while,’ Ed says before heading up for bed.
I feel desolate for Adrian. Not only is he going to feel ill again, he’s going to be a prisoner in St Vincent’s. How can we ever get him out of there?
Jack rings me later confirming what Ed said about Adrian’s visits to the loo.
‘Adrian definitely said he had the bug again.’
I pray he’s wrong.
I go up to Ed’s room and ask him what he had to eat.
‘Lobster,’ he says.
‘No wonder you’re feeling ill. Lobster can be a bit dodgy,’ I’m mightily relieved to say.
*
Later I sit on the bed with Emily before bedtime. Adrian has sent me a text, written yesterday. The text says, ‘Ta 4 tday. Herd ad 4 scarecrow exhbn nr ere. Mite b fun! A.’
When I first read this I thought ‘how nice!’ An exhibition of scarecrows! I’m so pleased he’s planning more things we can do together. I text him back and say ‘that sounds different’ but then I want to say more. I want to ask him about the bug and to think of a way to ask in a text whether he’s got diarrhoea again. But I can’t even spell the word, and when I try it in predictive text it comes out as ‘diarrhod’. Anyway it seems the wrong kind of question to put in a text. Emily suggests I ask how he’s feeling, but I decide not – I don’t like saying one thing when really I mean another. I turn my phone off, say goodnight to the girls and go downstairs to catch a bit of The Pumpkin Eater, an old black and white film about a woman who keeps having more and more babies. I first saw it years ago – before I had any…
Thursday 9th August 2007
I get up earlyish in case we decide to visit Sobel House. Yes, we are still clinging on to the Sobel House card. Since independent living in Bradford-on-Avon is a no no as far as Adrian is concerned, Sobel House has now become the lifeline he’s reaching for. A very important lifeline. If we can get him in there, everything will be alright…
I eat breakfast before ringing Adrian, but he’s already sent me a text: ‘Got bug back. All off…’
I think of replying with the single word ‘shit’ but then think better of it.
I eat my Crunchie Nut Cornflakes and All-Bran. I will build up some strength from somewhere and then I’ll phone him. I’ll go over and sort out the laptop for him. He’ll need it more than ever if he’s going to be incarcerated in that room again.
Before leaving the house I ring St Vincent’s to enquire about the refund of the fees I’ve paid but have since learnt Wandsworth Council is going to reimburse. I get a nurse called Fiona, who is very chatty, but I think one of the main culprits in the Failure to Deliver Brigade. She tells me Adrian will not be able to go out with me now he has the bug again, nor will he be able to come to my house, etc. etc… Okay, I’d worked that one out myself.
‘I think it would help matters in general if, when Adrian asks for something, it was forthcoming and he didn’t have to wait ages as this is very frustrating for him,’ I say.
‘I realise this is not your brother’s fault, but often we have a great deal to do and don’t do thin
gs as quickly as we might.’
‘But this is an expensive nursing home and he should be able to expect good service.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But it’s not always possible to go to a patient each time they call as we are short staffed.’
‘Then surely some of the residents’ fees should be spent on employing enough staff to look after them.’ The line goes quiet. ‘Hello, are you still there?’
‘Err, yes. I see what you mean…’
‘And if he’s getting more antagonistic towards the place then it makes things more difficult for me,’ I point out. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes,’ Fiona says, and I leave it at that.
*
I arrive at St Vincent’s just after two in the afternoon. Even though it’s a hot day, there’s no sign of Adrian in the garden – just the crumpled up figure of the woman (or, on second thoughts, is it a man?) who wears a purple hat and was here the other day asleep in front of the Daily Express. I’ve heard the nurses call this person Doctor Jenkins, so no extra clues as to the poor soul’s gender. With a little more scrutiny I decide she is indeed a ‘she’. A she, nonetheless, who happens to have a penchant for dressing in men’s clothes.
*
I go back into the house, down the corridor to Adrian’s room. Outside I don the apron and gloves, a fresh supply of which I note is on display outside his door. Back to the old routine. He’s lying in a heap, foetus style again, and the room smells bad – a mixture of the stuffy rancid paint smell that’s never faded, with a faint backdrop of poo. I give him a little radio I’ve just bought. I know, I know, I keep bringing more and more gadgets – although the laptop remains in the briefcase where I left it two days ago. I’m almost embarrassed to tell him I’ve brought yet another offering. As if any of these things will make him better.
Two nurses arrive in the room. One of the older women and a girl called Gift.
‘They won’t leave me alone,’ Adrian complains, understandably not wanting lots of people in his room fussing around him.
‘She want to be left in peace,’ Gift says. I’ve noticed her around before. She’s young with fine, beautifully chiselled African features – the sweetest of faces. Sometimes her English is muddled.
‘He,’ I correct her.
‘Oh yes, he. I sorry! Did I say she?’
Adrian doesn’t seem up for company and as I want to eat my sandwich outside I go out to his old table and start my picnic lunch. As I eat, however, although I’m alone, I can feel the energy coming from Matron whose office is directly behind me. I sense her coming out before I see her. Suddenly she’s standing in front of me, blocking the sun.
‘I’m extremely sorry to hear your brother is again suffering with C.diff,’ she says.
‘Yes, it’s so depressing,’ I hear myself say, momentarily dropping my guard.
‘Yes, and it’s extremely difficult for the staff here. Last night it took two nurses to clear up the mess which was all over the bed and the carpets. This was at two in the morning.’
I hadn’t realised quite how awful this illness was. How humiliating for Adrian – how horrible for him.
‘Then they had to Vax the carpets and even wash their own shoes.’
Fuck off, I think to myself. This is your job and you’re getting paid for it.
‘Of course, the drinking hasn’t helped,’ Matron continues. ‘The fact that he’s been drinking undermines the antibiotics which eradicated the C.diff in the first place. But then of course he is dying, and who knows what you or I would do under those circumstances.’
‘I can’t imagine how I would react,’ I say, feeling myself seduced into a heart-to-heart with someone so strangely heartless. ‘And I think he’s been drinking heavily for some time. I’m surprised I didn’t notice he had a problem years ago. Although I don’t like to think of him being classified as an alcoholic.’
‘Oh, but he is,’ Matron says. ‘The hospital report clearly states he is an alcoholic.’
‘Maybe. I know the medical definition of an alcoholic is quite low down the scale,’ I say recalling my conversation with Verity Jones. ‘You don’t necessarily have to drink a lot to be classified as an alcoholic in the world of medicine. To be perfectly honest, I think I’ve only seen him drunk once in my life.’ (I’m thinking back to a year ago when he came to Somerset for the anniversary of our mother’s funeral. The time he told me he’d joined a dating agency.)
‘Oh, no! You wouldn’t have. Alcoholics don’t get drunk!’
I decide to change the subject. Although the funding has been approved by Wandsworth Council and should be in the coffers of St Vincent’s I still haven’t seen any sign of the three thousand pounds plus I’ve spent on the fees and is due to be refunded.
‘Why is this?’ I ask.
‘As soon as we get it, it will be refunded to you…’ Blah, blah, blah…
*
I go back into Adrian’s room. The curtains are closed. The smell is vile. I open the packaging surrounding the new radio – one of those hermetically sealed double-glazed jobbies the manufacturers really don’t want anyone to get into.
‘Whoever made this blasted thing didn’t want anyone to actually open it!’ I observe as I hack my way in with an ice pick (okay, a pair of nail scissors). I know he will join in with this sentiment – i.e. the world is a ridiculously absurd place and everything is stacked against us.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says with a mirthless laugh.
‘The smell of paint in here is making me feel a bit sick. Would you like me to come back later?’
I leave the room and bump into Gift again in the main hallway. She’s receiving Adrian’s new batch of antibiotics from a pharmacist delivery woman. Yet another course of antibiotics. How many more can his body cope with?
I say goodbye to Gift in passing and she touches my arm.
‘Take care,’ she says.
Her gentle words catch me unawares. Take care. I have to turn away from her in order to hold back my tears.
*
I drive home too fast. The sky is perfect blue but with Simpsons clouds. At home I try to relax and find some energy for returning to St Vincent’s later, as I’d said I would do. Richard and Judy is on TV and features a conversation with a man who lost both legs in a fire. He sits on the Richard and Judy sofa with a gruesome prosthetic leg showing – why isn’t he wearing trousers over the false leg? His other leg, which is covered, is half removed. The man claims that losing both his legs is the best thing that ever happened to him. As his life was before, he’d probably have spent the rest of his days in a boring job in a warehouse. But now he’s just written a book (he doesn’t seem the type) and is a stunt double in films requiring characters with no legs.
Next Richard and Judy turn to the subject of the missing child, Madeleine McCann. The finger is being pointed at the parents as day 100 since her disappearance approaches. The Portuguese police are now suggesting Madeleine may have been murdered inside the apartment. Why on earth would these parents murder their little girl? The simple answer is, they wouldn’t. You only have to look at them to know they aren’t murderers. And why would anyone kill her inside the apartment and then carry her body away? Those parents are suffering hell already without being accused of murder. The world is sick. I feel so tired but can’t nap. Jack rings and asks me to come to The Bell in Buckland Dinham tonight for a drink.
‘I might come, but I’ve promised to go and see Adrian later on,’ I tell him.
*
I don’t get moving until after eight so by the time I get back to St Vincent’s dusk is falling.
Just as I pull up in the car park my mobile rings. It’s Phil G. He’s spoken to Adrian and is worried. ‘Adrian said “I can’t do this” and ended the call.’
‘I’ve just arrived and I’m about to go in and see him,’ I say.
‘I think I might come down tonight,’ Phil says. While I’m sitting in the car outside the main entrance of St Vincent’s,
Gift comes out and waves. Again I’m choked by this small act of humanity from this beautiful girl. This act of friendship. But it’s late. I’m tired. I break down whilst still on the phone to Phil. ‘I’ll phone you back when I’ve seen him,’ I whisper between sobs.
‘Are you alright, Ali?’ he says. I feel as close to this man I hardly know as I do to anyone right now. He always calls me ‘Ali’, even though this is my pet name.
I blow my nose, wipe my eyes and go into St Vincent’s. Adrian is lying on his back, looking bad.
‘I just want to die,’ he says turning away from me. ‘And I’m sick of all the people in here making a fuss all the time.’
Is this his way of maintaining some sort of macho dignity?
‘Do you want me to stay?’ I ask.
‘Yes, ten minutes,’ is his reply. I sit down and watch the television even though the screen is half hidden by his bed. He’s on the History Channel – still soaking up information about a world he’s soon to depart. Queen Victoria’s chubby round face smiles out at us. What’s it like to be dead, Vic? I’d like to ask her. Or to live on after death in the lives of thousands in the guise of an East End pub in a soap opera? Or as an important figure in history for people like Simon Schama, who is presenting this programme? Adrian speaks without turning round to face me.
‘I’m not very good at talking…’ he begins. I wonder if he’s about to say something like a statement of his affection for me – love maybe? How many times recently have I felt the need for a show of affection from him. Yet when it comes to the crunch and he seems to be putting something into words, I don’t pursue it. I brush off this beginning of a conversation by saying ‘oh, that’s alright,’ because I fear I’ll break down. The moment is lost. His words lost as well. I’m too tired for this and whatever he was about to say fizzles out.