Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  I log on for the first time since last week. My inbox has a record-breaking number in it: 467 emails. I get up and put a Do Not Disturb sign on my door; it’s the one I usually use for examinations held in my office. I read all the emails with little red flags on them first; these are marked priority so I don’t have to mentally prioritise anything. I am not on cover today: that’s a relief. We have 100% attendance. That’s unusual. I have two scheduled meetings later on this after­noon and a few lessons. Nothing too demanding. I manage to process the vast majority of emails, hoping that I haven’t missed anything important. It’s so easy to do. I print off the agendas for the afternoon meetings and do a bit of research on my areas, one of which is implementing our new appraisal system. Peter, Liam and I have agreed to split the appraisals three ways. We will start them in January. No point getting ahead of ourselves.

  The rest of the day drags. I teach my lessons using my impressive stock of PowerPoints but I feel as though I am short-changing the pupils. A Year 9 girl asks me if I am all right. I am so overwhelmed by her emotional intelligence that I almost cry. I tell her that I had flu over half-term. She tells me that’s bad luck and smiles. How kind. I set quite a demanding homework – one that will take them all week – just in case I encounter a crisis at home and have to take time off from work. I’m probably being overzealous. I decide to look for Abbas and see if he’s free. I need to talk to someone that is not Joe. Abbas is in the middle of teaching the Lower Sixth. The title of their discussion topic is scrawled on the whiteboard: Philosophy of Religion and Is there a God? Abbas sees me through the glass panel (we all have to have them these days) and invites me to come in. He embarrasses me by saying how honoured they are to have me in their lesson. The thing is, he means it. He’s so kind. I really want to cuddle him and for him to cuddle me. Instead, I make do with sit­ting next to him. I join in. It’s great fun and for a split second, I wish I was teaching Religious Education too.

  I am so absorbed in someone else’s lesson that I make myself late for the SMT meeting. I apologise. Principal Peter is a born scientist and mathematician. Everything he does is systematic. When he goes abroad, he even works out how many books he should pack by multiplying the number of words in an average book with the number of words he thinks he might read per day. I decide to buy him a Kindle for Christmas. The meeting is very productive. We even agree on a new appraisal system based on eight different com­petencies. I won’t bore you with them now. They’re pretty fundamental to teaching and learning. The pupils all drift off home, as do some of the staff. Principal Peter is going for another swim – he’s trying to avoid having a Pacemaker fitted – and Liam is on the telephone. All’s Quiet on the West End Front. I don’t want to go home. I feel comfortable now, back in my sanctuary, and I am not keen to leave it. I pro­crastinate for so long that I eventually clear my whole inbox; do all my filing; mark anything on my desk and even tidy up the pens and pencils in my drawer. My desk is clear, even if my conscience is not.

  The school is so quiet that I take the opportunity to send long messages to Olivia and Eddie. They’re in Melbourne now. I’m pleased about this because I know that they’re stay­ing with cousins of cousins. They will be well looked after. And safe. I check in on my Facebook page (which is friends with theirs by mutual consent) and see numerous postings of the twins. There’s a dramatic picture of them posing on the Eureka Skydeck which is much more impressive than the London Eye. There’s a photograph of Eddie leaning pre­cariously out of the window of the narrow steam train – the Puffing Billy – as it curls around the Dandenong Ranges National Park. I yearn to be there with them.

  I’m surprised that Michael doesn’t say what he wants. He appears to have lost his insight. Shouldn’t he have a say in his future? I’m afraid for him. Afraid for us.

  Chapter 5

  The Grim Reaper

  The week has passed without incident – which is nothing short of a miracle at our school – and Michael has two inter­views lined up. The first one is tomorrow and the second one is on Friday: Halloween. I must admit, I thought it was game over for Michael, so this is really good news. I almost have a spring in my step.

  He thinks the first interview has gone well. The “firm” were very impressed by his client list and also with his reputation amongst other actuaries. We celebrate rather prematurely and open a bottle of champagne that one of my students gave me for Christmas last year. The plonker wrote on the label so we couldn’t re-gift it, even if we wanted to. And to show that I wasn’t completely ungrateful, we raised a toast to Joshua, the champagne-cum-graffiti artist. Whilst Michael is in the shower, I take a look inside his bedside drawer. There’s only one Prozac left in the packet. I’m sure he’s supposed to make them last until mid-November. I need to monitor him more carefully.

  I help Michael lay out all the clothes and papers that he needs for the next day, just as I used to do for our children when they were young. I do it in a supportive way and don’t make a big deal of it. It’s not a big deal. I think I want him to get a new job. I know that he will be happier if he’s gainfully employed. But at the back of my mind, I am fearful. What if he can’t cope with the pressure? What if he makes another catastrophic mistake? No one wants that for their husband. I find myself standing stock still. I am not sure what to do, what to advise, what to say.

  Instead, I return to Michael and we watch the news together. We mess around and imitate Donald Trump; he’s so easy to mimic. By 11 pm we are fairly sober again and the thought of tomorrow fills me with anxiety. Michael pops a pill into his mouth; it’s not a Rennie.

  I have to go into work early on Friday as in addition to all the usual lessons and meetings, I also have to make an appearance at the Sixth Form Halloween Party at 6 pm I think we are the only secondary school in London, or even the United Kingdom, that allows its students to have a party on the premises. I have bought a black lipstick and black nail varnish for the occasion. I refuse to humiliate myself any further and reject any invitations to dress up as a vampire or a devil. Principal Peter is a good sport though. There’s no way he can do a meet and greet with the parents whilst he has a green face; jagged scars and a massive rubber nail sticking out of both sides of his head! Last year he was dressed up as the Incredible Hulk.

  The party is a raucous event. The fancy ceiling spotlights are off. The only light in the room is emanating from two Halloween lanterns. We have the same ones at home. Our students have gone overboard with their decorations. There are black and orange garlands hanging from the ceiling; miniature witches stirring imaginary potions in cauldrons and heaps of food, mostly coloured green, black and orange. There is an inflatable of the Grim Reaper hanging from the ceiling. I feel as though I am on a film set in Hollywood Studios. Principal Peter feels at home. After all, they say “he’s American!” I congratulate the students on their costumes and give them a huge cauldron of sweets (which I reassure them is a one-off) – they immediately plunge their hands into it, greedily. The music is loud, pulsating and verging on frightening. Most of our students are dressed as zombies. I look around the common room and notice that Fran is blending in. She shouldn’t be there, of course, but Freddie has his arm wrapped around her shoulders. No one dares eject her. Not even me. She’s in her normal Goth clothes but her face is as white as a geisha and her lips are blood-red. Her bump is twice the size it was before half-term. It must be hard to be a pregnant student in Year 11.

  The party goes on for four hours. We have to finish at 10 pm otherwise Joe the caretaker will demand double time. I’m also a little worried about how the students are going to get home. I insist that they text their parents before setting off; however, most of them are greeted by one, if not both of them, so I need not have been so anxious. I have always been like this. Even before I had children of my own.

  Principal Peter takes about thirty minutes to remove all his green makeup. I give him a packet of wet-wipes which I keep in my desk drawer in case I spill my Diet Coke; this happens qu
ite often. We decide to leave together. He lives in a flat in a beautiful building near Regent’s Park. I cycle past it twice a day but I have never been inside it. I’m intrigued. I start to imagine what his apartment looks like. His office gives nothing away.

  Now that the party is over, I feel tired and impatient to be home. I’m also hoping that Michael’s interview – his second of the week – has been a triumph. It has not. I can tell straight away by the way that he is slumped over the kitchen table, hands glued to the sides of his unshaven face. There’s a crumpled-up email, which he has managed to print off, and it is a polite rejection from the first interview, the one that allegedly went well. I ask him if he’s all right. I boil the kettle. I’m desperate for a mug of tea. I wonder how long he has been sitting there. There are three empty bottles of beer on the table; an apple core and some soggy Cornflakes in the bottom of a cereal bowl. He hasn’t cooked and appears to have eaten breakfast for supper. I haven’t eaten anything, yet.

  He doesn’t ask me how I am or how the Halloween party has gone. I find this so depressing. I have been spoilt in the past. But now, the effort is all one-way. I feel so lonely. I long for the confident, arrogant Michael. I just don’t understand how depression can be so consuming. And soul destroying. I have been too wrapped up in my own career and the twins’ A Levels to notice Michael’s downward slide.

  I sit down opposite the shadow of my husband and reach out my hands so that they touch his. He instantly grasps them and covers them protectively. I ask him what’s hap­pened to us and he shrugs his shoulders. He admits that he has finished the Prozac and that he thinks he has developed a bloody addiction. He is swearing much more than usual. I suggest that we (which means me these days) make another appointment to see the GP, preferably our usual one this time. I leave an urgent message on the Health Centre’s emer­gency number; it’s answered by an actual person. Amazing. Michael is offered an appointment for 10 am on Saturday morning. God bless the National Health Service.

  I am so relieved. I eat two pieces of toast with marmite; have a quick bath and go to bed. I open up my new book: The Testaments by Margaret Atwood. I can’t understand why I want to read about oppressed women in Gilead but I do. I have waited thirty-five years for the sequel to The Handmaid’s Tale, as have millions of others. Michael isn’t one of them. Sadly, he has temporarily lost his reading habit, much to my disappointment. He rolls over and moves his legs around restlessly. I make a mental note to add Restless Leg Syndrome to his symptoms. I am barely into Chapter 1 but it’s impossible to concentrate. My husband is making it difficult for me to leave the confines of our bedroom. He is whingeing about the interviews and the associates on the panel. I’m not entirely clear what he’s saying as it sounds so convoluted; besides, as he has told me many times, I don’t really understand his line of work. I’m worn out but I am too tired to fall asleep. I shut my eyes and imagine that I am in Olivia’s bedroom.

  In the morning, Michael forgets to shave and wears two jumpers, one on top of the other. I think it’s pretty obvious that he needs to do a cognitive test. This time, I’m not going to take no for an answer. I decide to let him turn up at the surgery in his natural state. I’m not going to talk about cur­rent affairs or remind him which year it is. He will have to fend for himself.

  The surgery is packed with just about everyone we know from the area; this is utterly disconcerting. Even Matt (our grumpy neighbour) is ill. Apparently, we are on the verge of a pandemic. Nothing feels real. Everything feels surreal. I motion Michael towards the back of the waiting room so that we’re directly opposite the goldfish tank. He watches the orange carp as if his life depends on them. The surgery is running fifteen minutes late. Michael starts tapping his feet and moaning out loud, drawing attention to himself and to me. I am much more self-conscious than him. I pick out a magazine for him to read; it’s The Week, his favourite. He starts to look at it but the pages turn so quickly that I know he isn’t taking anything in. He says “Fuck me” a few times, especially when he sees pictures of Angela Merkel and her cronies. I am not sure why this particular article has made him so angry. I look at my mobile. The same sing-song ques­tioning tone of the receptionist announces my husband’s name. We enter the doctor’s inner sanctum and sit down on the two white Keeler chairs. As soon as we do so, Dr Daniella Goldstein, whom we know quite well, opens up her notes on her computer. I do most of the talking. I explain all of Michael’s symptoms, including Restless Leg Syndrome, and say that he is incapable of shaving. She tells Michael that he needs to do a cognitive test; it will help illuminate matters. The sooner the better. At least we’re making progress.

  Daniella asks us questions centred on life before Croatia. She probes him about work issues and whether there have been any little mistakes, ones that he has made without noticing but subsequently was able to correct. With hind­sight – that gloriously annoying word – I think Michael’s downward slide may have started months ago. It’s just that none of us had noticed it. Daniella explains that the clin­ical cognitive assessment is to establish whether someone has dementia; it will include an examination of attention, concentration, orientation, short-term memory, long-term memory, praxis, language and executive function. I don’t know what all this means. Michael looks very relaxed. He likes tests. As a student, he achieved as close to 100% as he could. Triple A grades at A Level; a first in maths at Durham. He was top in the Institute and Faculty of Actuaries exam­inations. I used to wonder why he didn’t attempt Oxbridge. That’s easy, he would say, it is too posh for a lad from Staffordshire. What he didn’t appreciate, however, was that Durham was almost entirely made up of privileged pupils like me. At least we used to laugh about it.

  Daniella doesn’t waste any time. She explains that Michael could be assessed at the ironically named Memory Clinic; however, there is also a GP’s assessment test which she can implement straight away; it’s called the General Practitioner Assessment of Cognition. (GPCOG). I am on a steep learning curve. She will also arrange for Michael to have a blood test and a brain scan. Things feel as though they’re moving fast.

  The GP prints off the test and puts her glasses on to read it. She picks up her fountain pen, poised to complete the ques­tionnaire. If only it were that simple. She starts by asking him which year it is. Michael is quite hesitant but gets it right though it is a painfully slow process. The next question is about time. Without looking at the clock, or your watch, roughly what time do you think it is? Our appointment was scheduled for 10 am and the surgery was running fifteen minutes late. It’s now 10.30 am He is hungry and thinks it is lunch time. I’m afraid both the doctor and I smile at each other but we don’t laugh. It is far from funny. The questions come thick and fast. She gives him an address: 22 Markham Square, SW3. It seems quite arbitrary. Michael struggles to cope with the change of direction and the pace. He is unable to count backwards from 100 to 80, and he can’t say who the current prime minister is either. I find this particularly distressing. We are news junk­ies. He does manage to make a joke though, remarking on how many PMs we have had over the past few years. He is not completely out of touch. The GP asks him if he can remember the address that she mentioned earlier. He can’t.

  The deterioration of his brain is marked. Soul destroy­ing. It is remarkably rapid; this may be linked to his relative youth. Daniella is pretty sure that Michael has some form of dementia but she isn’t finished yet. She finds another test (not an official one) that involves looking at pictures. I try and do the test at the same time. It flashes up pictures in sequences. The first one is of a river. The second one is of a man fishing by the river. The third one is very similar but there is a tree in the background. We return to the first pic­ture, of the river. Michael has to use the mouse and right click every time he thinks he has seen a picture before. It’s an exacting test. I think many of us would fail it.

  The strain of appearing to be normal has drained Michael of all his energy. We are both emotionally spent. But I know this is just the
beginning. We are going to have to face test after test, blood test after blood test, scan after scan, appoint­ment after appointment. It will be relentless. And if our GP is right, our future is bleak. There’s currently no cure for dementia. I pray that the doctor is wrong. She asks about Michael’s family history. He can answer this as it’s in his long-term memory. He explains that his parents died in a car crash whilst we were at university. They were young – in their late forties – and extremely fit. No strokes. No heart attacks. There’s no family history. That’s the point. A huge lorry had veered into their lane on the motorway. Their Fiat didn’t stand a chance. His parents were killed instantly. Michael explains, quite candidly, that I had been a substitute mother for him. I feel uncomfortable hearing this. We’re the same age. But I guess I was there for him then as I am here for him now. I was under the erroneous impression that he fancied me back then.

  The doctor says she will make all the necessary arrange­ments for the first round of tests and the MRI scan which will be at the Royal Free Hospital near Hampstead Heath. Nothing is instant though. There’s no point booking any time off just yet. Everything will take weeks. I ask Michael if he still has his health insurance as this used to be one of the perks from his old job. He hasn’t. I wonder what else he has allowed to lapse, other than his faith.

  I ask Daniella’s advice: should I tell the twins about Michael’s condition? I feel so dishonest. She tells me to wait until we receive confirmation, just in case she’s wrong. She’s certain it’s early onset dementia. She repeats: there is no cure. But I fear that by the time our children return to the UK in January, their father won’t recognise them. The doctor reassures me that even early onset dementia isn’t that quick. But I am beginning to wonder how long he has really had it. We’re not talking weeks or months. Michael is so clever that he it is possible that he has compensated for his deteri­oration in other ways. Our preconceived ideas about people rarely change.