Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  I return to the kitchen and sit down at my laptop. I am on the verge of having a panic attack. I calm myself down with a search on Google. I find the number for the Samaritans: 116 123. The website is reassuring; it says: Call us any time, day or night. I must remember this. I have left my mobile charging upstairs – in Olivia’s room – so I hurry back into the sit­ting room area to pick up the landline. I’m half way through pressing the numbers when a large hand snatches the phone from me. You’re not allowed to make personal calls from the office. You aren’t dressed for work. Why haven’t you booked a meeting room for me? I find it bizarre that he is so aggressive in his “office” as he had a reputation for being one of the kind­est and most amenable bosses in his firm. But it’s not him. It’s the dementia, and I must remember this. It is hard for me not to take his accusations personally. They don’t make sense and yet they sound like they do. Michael still has an extensive vocabulary. I explain once again that I am his wife. He doesn’t recognise me this morning. He is banging the receiver into his chest. I wonder if he is using pain to find his true self. I urge him to return the phone to its base. I prom­ise not to use it. We will go out for breakfast; or a walk; or a swim. Anything. He can decide. He’s the boss. Maybe we should see a film? See some friends? Go down to Brighton to see the children? He doesn’t have any children; why are we living in Liverpool? I have no idea what he is talking about. It must be very frightening living in his topsy-turvy world but it’s equally terrifying living in mine. I tell him to stop ranting and raving but this only exacerbates the argument between us. He grabs hold of my cotton nightie and tears a piece off as I struggle to move away from him.

  The doorbell rings. Michael’s reaction to the bell is Pavlovian. He stops and simply stands to attention, waiting for further instructions. It’s Matt from next door. He has heard “raised voices” and wants to know if everything is all right. I tell him it is anything but all right. I am desperate for him to stay. I cannot hide my fear or distress. I ask him to distract Michael so that I can get dressed. He is keen to help. He shuts the front door and attaches the chain; I’m not sure why he does this. I don’t interfere. I am just grateful to be rescued. Matt tries to approach my husband, man-to-man, and adopts a measured but commanding tone. I almost wish he could move in. I dash up the stairs, the ones that were impassable only a few minutes ago, and lock myself into my bedroom. I phone my parents whilst I have the opportunity. I explain that we have reached a crisis point; that I can’t cope without Kathleen; that I am incapable as Michael’s carer and I think he might try and kill me. My father is on the verge of calling the police but I say that Matt is here and that every­thing is all right. They want to come up to London to rescue me. I can hear shouting from the landing so I tell my father that I will call him back in a minute. I reiterate: don’t call the police. I didn’t mean what I said.

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look like the Wreck of the Hesperus: torn nightie, matted hair, no makeup and grey shadows under my eyes. I am the shipwreck torn apart by Michael’s powerful and stormy waves. Matt has dragged Michael up the stairs like a recalcitrant teenager. I can hear them both swearing. I unlock the door and come out with one of Michael’s tee shirts and a sweatshirt. Between us, we attempt to clothe the wild centaur which kicks and punches with all its strength. Its eyes burn into mine, seething with resentment and anger. It wants Kathleen. This is illogical. I thought he was terrified of her. The tee shirt is on but Matt uses the sweatshirt to bind the centaur’s wrists together. He is still kicking him in the shins. I question this tactic, think­ing of my bullying policy, but he insists that it’s necessary. I realise that I haven’t administered Michael’s medication; perhaps this explains his volcanic eruption. I fetch the pills from the bathroom. Matt is still doing battle. He is precar­iously close to the top of the stairs. I try to put the white pill into the centaur’s mouth and clamp it shut with both my hands. It chews the pill whilst screwing up its face; the taste must be repulsive. We are moving down the gears, back into neutral, when Matt retaliates, saying that Michael should be sectioned. The centaur reappears, raises his bound wrists and thumps Matt on the nose, causing him to lose his bal­ance. It is a bloody Sunday.

  Chapter 30

  Intervention

  Bloody Sunday has been the catalyst for yet more appoint­ments which are now lined up for the duration of the week. Social Services are coming on Tuesday afternoon. There will be a full assessment involving the neurologist, a Social Worker with expertise in psychiatric patients and even our GP, Daniella, will be present. I spend most of Monday on the telephone. Michael is in no fit state to go to the Day Centre as he has refused to wash, shave or get dressed. I am trying to persuade him to take his medication but he is refusing to do that too. I am at my wit’s end. I let him slump in front of the Panasonic babysitter, vegetating, whilst I confirm all the appointments for the week ahead. It doesn’t look as though I will be able to get down to Sussex after all. I decide to send Kathleen a text, with an update, but I am not sure whether I want her to be present when the assessment is carried out.

  The day passes without incident. I spend most of it on my computer, working, whilst Michael sits passively in front of the television. I make us supper and join him on the sofa to eat it; this is something I hate doing but I am too shattered to have an argument. It is nine o’clock and it’s very dark outside so I suggest we go up to bed. Michael isn’t tired. He has had no physical exercise all day. Neither have I. I suggest a walk. It can be quite pleasant when all the traffic has ceased. He asks me what we’re doing today. I explain that the day is over. But we can go for a little walk, around the block. He needs to get ready for work; there’s an important meeting with the Polish client. I remind him that he’s not working anymore. I tell him he’s on a sabbatical; it seems more tactful. Anyway, the office is closed. He has toothache and a headache. I leave a message on the dentist’s answering machine asking for an emergency appointment. I am not hopeful. I spend an hour repeating myself whilst tidying up the house. Kathleen hasn’t reorgan­ised the kitchen cupboards yet; I almost wish she had.

  It is now Tuesday morning: D-Day. It feels as if the whole world is descending on my little house. I cajole Michael into having a shower. He insists on doing this himself. Most of the water seeps under the door. He emerges from the bathroom looking slightly damper than when he entered it. He smells of sweat and urine. He comes into the bedroom, wrapped up in a towel. He is still wearing his boxer shorts which aren’t remotely wet. I remind him that we have visitors coming and that he should make an effort to look respectable. Michael looks so unkempt that I am wondering whether to take him to my hairdressers. I lay out some clean clothes on our bed. He doesn’t want to wear someone else’s clothes. Why are Matt’s things in our wardrobe? I text Matt. I thank him for not press­ing charges and update him insofar as I can. Michael insists on having privacy; this reminds me, I still haven’t installed the secret “nanny” card device.

  I telephone my mother. She is going to pay for Eddie and Olivia’s flights to Geneva Airport; they will catch a coach from there to the resort in Chamonix. My parents will take the twins into Brighton and treat them to some new clothes although they have insisted that I bring up their ski boots and ski wear when I come down on Wednesday. They won’t take no for an answer. Whilst I am waiting for the health team to arrive, I take out the suitcases we used in Croatia. The luggage tags are still on them. For a brief moment, I allow myself to think about our holiday last summer; it feels as though it was someone else’s. I no longer own that memory. How could things have been so normal then and so abnor­mal now? It is surreal. I know that Kathleen is returning today so I pack Eddie’s case first. I lug it into Olivia’s room so that it won’t be in anyone’s way. I find it easier to pack for Olivia. I lock the cases with a small padlock and put the key into my purse. Michael comes into the room. He thinks I am sending him away. He has a sixth sense. He is not reassured by the name tags; he says I could be prete
nding, just to trick him. He doesn’t offer to take them downstairs – which he would have done in the past – so I drag them down myself, bumping them down the staircase which I notice still has Matt’s blood on it.

  Mr Patel arrives first. He in the same grey suit but this time is wearing a red tie. The Social Worker and our GP arrive minutes later. We gather in the kitchen and sit down at the table. I offer them tea and coffee but all three decline. Maybe later. Mr Patel puts his hand out to shake Michael’s; he says he will do his best for the interview. No one reacts. The Social Worker asks the first question. It is a gentle begin­ning to an otherwise gruelling process. Michael is unable to say the name of our prime minister, he has no idea what is going on, he has heard of Brexit but he can’t explain what it is, he doesn’t know why he isn’t working and he doesn’t want to leave home. She wants to know if he can manage by himself, how he feels when I am at work, can he cook? He says he’s “independent” and makes a “mean lasagne”. This is news to me. I am astonished at how well he is doing. But the Social Worker is not fooled. She continues to press him. How would you feel if you had a few days away from home? A mini holiday? Mr Patel furnishes Michael with a little more infor­mation. He mentions tests and scans. What is this? One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? This is Michael’s response. He is not brain dead yet. I almost think it would be easier for him if he were less aware of his condition. Mr Patel is very tactful. He informs him that it’s just for a few days. Our GP takes me to one side and tells me to pack a small bag for Michael. He will most probably be admitted for at least three nights, possibly more. She also asks me if I want to come over for dinner. We are lucky to have such an empathetic GP. I consider her a friend these days.

  I go upstairs to pack, again; this time it’s for my husband. I put a wash bag together; an electric toothbrush, toothpaste, his favourite bath towel and several changes of clothes. I don’t bother with a novel as he hasn’t read one for ages. Even when he does pick up a coffee table book, he turns the pages over so quickly that he can’t possibly be taking much in. It is heart-breaking. I bring the bag downstairs and put it next to the front door. I’m about to return to the table when Kathleen comes bounding into the open-plan living space. She almost knocks me over. I introduce her to the “team” and she makes a sarcastic comment about my not offering them any hos­pitality. I look at Daniella and shrug my shoulders. I don’t need to say anything to her. The interloper puts the kettle on but Mr Patel intervenes. He wants Michael to do the hon­ours. I don’t think this is necessary. We all know that he is incapable of it. But my husband leaps up with enthusiasm; it’s something to do. He can prove himself. He doesn’t have to be admitted or sectioned or whatever the word is these days. The interloper can’t help herself. She hands him the teabags and teaspoons. She is doing her best to undermine the whole charade but she doesn’t have to try. Michael stuffs all five teabags into one mug. She puts her body in between Mr Patel’s and the mugs so that he can’t get a straight view of the action. It’s all academic now. We sit down with our hot concoctions and pretend to sip them. Michael is sitting back in the chair with his arms folded against his red jumper; it’s clean, at least, though I notice that he isn’t wearing anything underneath it. I ask Kathleen to fetch a shirt for Michael. She dutifully gets one (not the one I selected but a checked shirt from the drawer) and helps him to dress and undress. He is compliant and helps her by stretching out his arms. I still don’t understand why is so acquiescent with her and so dif­ficult with me. She seems to have a hold over him.

  The Social Worker starts to interview Kathleen. Is she capable of looking after Michael overnight? And for a series of days? Is she really prepared to have all that responsibility? Kathleen is lapping it all up now. She is worth more than the £400 that I pay her. One patient? She used to manage hundreds. Besides, she and Michael have a special rapport. This is what she tells the “team”. I try to intervene a couple of times, explaining that Michael can be volatile and violent. She might not be safe with him, home alone. And I might not be either. She tells me to lock the door. I can hear an engine grinding outside and see a small ambulance parked on the cobbles. It’s for Michael. It’s just for twenty-four hours. It’s routine.

  Mr Patel, Daniella and the Social Worker escort a rather subdued Michael out of the house and into the ambulance. Kathleen runs after him. I push her out of the way and get in myself. She is not his wife. I am. We drive very slowly over the cobbled mews and within minutes we have arrived at The Royal Free Hospital; it feels like déjà-vu. Daniella offers to stay with me, whilst we take Michael to the wing for elderly patients and those suffering from dementia. There will be a full-blown assessment. As soon as Mr Patel returns to his office, and the Social Worker departs, Michael asks for Kathleen. He keeps saying that he needs her, she under­stands him, she is his wife. Daniella takes me out of the ward and sits me down on one of the plastic blue chairs near the Nurse’s Station. She hands me a box of tissues. I can’t hold back my tears anymore; they just keep rolling down like the rain from a leaking gutter. My phone buzzes. It’s Kathleen. She wants to come to the hospital. And is her job safe? Am I going to pay her in cash or make a bank transfer? I think she only cares about the money. I don’t think she loves Michael like I do, even if I am struggling to show it at times.

  We walk back into the ward. There’s a curtain drawn around Michael’s bed. He is having a blood test. A nurse appears with the sample and checks the information on the sticker with the notes on her clipboard. A male nurse appears with a small beaker. Daniella explains that they need a urine sample. I know but it seems churlish to say that I do. There’s an awful commotion emanating from behind the curtain. There’s a poltergeist on the other side, kicking and pushing, whilst the male nurse tries to help Michael lower his trou­sers. I knew he would resent having another man anywhere near his genitals. The male nurse comes out of the cubicle, vociferously shaking his head. He wants me to try. I don’t want to. Michael is proud and sensitive about these things. But the male nurse insists. He calls me by my first name. I am being cajoled from all sides. Even Daniella takes me by the arm and encourages me to follow him into the cubicle. She says the sample is necessary and it would be better if the request came from me. She tells Michael that I am here, and makes sure that he knows it is me. But lately he hasn’t known who I am so why should now be any different? He’s wearing blue jeans, with buttons, which was obviously a mistake on my part. I didn’t anticipate today’s procedures. The others leave the cubicle to give us both some privacy. It feels strange to be with him now.

  I kneel down on the floor, beside the bed. I slowly unbut­ton his trousers and slide them down his thighs. The patient looks down at me and calls me Sophie for the first time in days. His penis quickly becomes erect; I think it recog­nises my scent. I know that I do not look attractive today. I am unprepared for his volcanic ejaculation as he comes so quickly. The sticky white semen attaches itself to my neck and face. He stands with his hands on his hips, proud to be a full-blooded male. My husband’s sperm and my tears are intermingled. I am still holding the beaker. I don’t think it is physically possible for him to pass urine now. I don’t want the male nurse to come back in yet. I try to wrestle with Michael’s jeans but I can’t get them back up; it’s as if his sperm is acting like some sort of gluing agent. I let my knees give way and slide to the sticky floor so that my hands slip under the curtain into the outside world that is the ward. Daniella immediately pulls me away from the cubicle as the male nurse pushes himself back into it. He promises to be discreet.

  I feel as though I have been contaminated. There’s a wash­room at the end of the ward; I realise it’s for the patients but I can’t face being seen in the corridors. I sit on the lavatory and cry until I am totally spent. My tears must be bankrupt. I sit for what seems like hours but it can only be a matter of minutes. I am calmer now. I bend my head towards the basin, which is too low for me as it’s designed for wheelchairs, and let the water from the tap dri
nk onto my hair. It is far from satisfactory. I press the hand dryer but the air is barely hot enough and it stops after twenty seconds. My peace is short-lived as someone is banging on the door. An elderly man is trying to reach the lavatory whilst his yellow urine trick­les down his emaciated leg. I say I am so sorry and I burst into tears again. Why couldn’t Michael just piss in a bottle? I apologise to the elderly man again. He doesn’t have demen­tia. His only offence is his age; he is 97 on Saturday. I have no desire to be that old.