Diary of a Lone Twin

by David Loftus

  The neurology unit had by then also spoken to the manufacturer of gentamicin and to the Committee of Safety in Drugs and apparently there had been no previously recorded incidents with this type of drug before.

  Elsewhere, in Wandsworth, Peter Matthews and his wife T. J. were nervously awaiting the arrival of their firstborn, a baby who was due to be John’s first godchild.

  Wednesday 7 November

  7 November 1987, Mother was still calling the oncology unit, but receiving no information from them. She hadn’t had any replies to her queries and her continued questions about the injection were falling on universally deaf ears. The neurology unit continued to monitor and probe John’s condition in Intensive Care. It was a quietly busy place, quite surreal in its relative darkness, the seriousness of the head injuries meaning that the death rate of these young men around us was alarmingly frequent. Walking in on the seventh, I passed with horror a ‘bereavement room’. There was a shell-shocked family, all young, sitting with one of the neurosurgeons, heads in hands. The patient in the bed next to John must have died in the night.

  Dr Henry Marsh, one of the best known neurosurgeons in the world, was now on John’s case, in the best neuro-centre in the country, but there was still confusion as to how we’d found ourselves back at the neurology unit with Johnny so desperately ill. It was the first time that I overheard the mention of John being in a coma and at one point he was wheeled away to surgery and another shunt was inserted into his brain to try to relieve the pressure.

  When he came back from the operation I remember thinking how young he looked as I soothed his lips with the lemon-balm cotton buds, his head now swathed in clean bandages, peaceful but seemingly totally unaware of his surroundings, his skin smooth and untroubled. During the day another young man died and I was glad that John was unaware of him being read the last rites by a priest while a family waited in the bereavement room.

  Thursday 8 November

  Second day of the new book, shooting at Jamie’s studio, long days, really full on, which I like. At breakfast I ask the team to be patient with me, reminding them that I am in a week of anniversaries and struggling to hold it together.

  * * *

  T. J. Matthews, Peter’s wife, gave birth to a daughter called Clio and I called Peter to tell him that I’d tell John as soon as he regained consciousness. Samantha, Mother and I had again become a revolving presence around John’s bed, stroking, whispering and soothing his unmoving body.

  In the afternoon of that day hope was restored. John awoke from his coma. I had left the hospital to get back to The Beeches and to Molly. My illustrations were now in a state of limbo so I had nothing to go back for other than keeping Molly company and checking the answerphone, which told me to come straight back.

  Oh the joy of seeing him among the prone and unconscious, eyes open, awake and responsive, smiley even. I rushed to his side, brushing the wispy hairs from his eyes, full of too many questions, I knew, but I wondered if he remembered what happened. He didn’t really, he remembered being very sick, the vomiting, he remembered my present to him and Samantha, he seemed surprisingly lucid for a while. But, as the minutes went by, minutes rather than hours, I could see things weren’t quite right. I was still bathing his lips in lemon balm to keep them moist and he started biting the cotton bud, just gently, almost jokingly, but it seemed strange. I told him about Clio being born to T. J. and Peter. He was, he said, ‘chuffed’ to be named her godfather and I told him he’d make an amazing one – the first of our godchildren. I remember feeling slightly jealous that this big deal had been bestowed on him.

  As I was talking to John, I became upset at his biting of the cotton bud. I know that sounds odd, but he’d bite it and not let go. It was unsettling. I could see he was a bit agitated and restless, his movement more and more erratic. Gradually he fell asleep.

  Telling John he was a godfather to Clio was the last conversation I had with him.

  Dear Johnny,

  Despite the fact that we were robbed of the opportunity to meet, I feel as if I’ve always known you. As a child I remember seeing you often, imagining your presence by my side, perhaps because you were spoken about so frequently, so fondly, and with great love. You left an indelible mark on some of the most special people in my life.

  You have been, and always will be part of my world, not least because in your place I have David, your other half. I call him the godfather sent from heaven, and I feel very lucky to have you both. Two for the price of one.

  I hope you and mummy are looking after one another.

  All my love,

  Clio

  T. J., Clio’s mother, would die from cancer herself just a few years later, having sacrificed her remaining treatment so that she could provide Clio with a sister, Sibby.

  As the afternoon passed into the evening of 8 November 1987 it became apparent that John’s condition was deteriorating and that he had slipped back into his coma. I tried to speak properly to Mother about it but, even as eminent a doctor as she was, with the absence of information, she was struggling to understand what was going on in his brain. She did say that it was obviously fighting, hence his awakening. Again I left Mother and Samantha beside his bed, illuminated theatrically in the long, dark room.

  That night I lay on my futon and prayed and prayed like I’ve never prayed before, no longer for stopping the incoming Ice Ages and volcanic flows, nor for protection from Billy’s brain tumours. Instead I begged for forgiveness for letting Dr S complete his injection, I begged that Father was unaware, I begged that God think of my mother who had saved so many lives in her own eventful life, I begged and begged that he would ‘make John better’. I must have slept eventually, but I would never sleep a whole night’s sleep again.

  Friday 9 November

  Tick-tock go the hands of the clock

  It’s day three in Jamie’s studio, shooting the new book. I feel fragile and sad, but at the same time positive, lucky that my inner world is strong: Ange, Paros, Pascale, Mother, Tim and my friends I call the Musketeers. Today is Friday, and this weekend I shall look at the last of the photo albums. I’ll hug the children, I’ll spoon Ange, I’ll dine with Mother and Jean-Marian and Ian and their partners, I’ll sit on the boat and read and write. I’ll breakfast at The Wolseley and take Ange to Sir John Soane’s Museum, I’ll plan the walk next weekend up from Eskdale, along the River Esk and over the stepping stones to Boot, then up to Blea Tarn to write a final letter to my dear Johnny. Then, my job here will be done.

  * * *

  Monday 9 November 1987 saw John slipping deeper into a coma. We were all desperately worried and between us we maintained a permanent watch at his bedside. During the day Dr Marsh asked to see Mother. He told Mother that they had found eighty – EIGHTY – times the therapeutic dose of gentamicin in John’s cerebrospinal fluid. The neurology unit had called the oncology unit over the weekend and, unbelievably, they had been told that John was in fact given intravenous gentamicin instead of intrathecal gentamicin, which would account for the huge amount of drug in his brain, an enormous overdose of one of the strongest antibiotics directly into his head. Far too late, the oncology unit had admitted their mistake.

  Dr Marsh made the decision to operate again on John’s brain to try to relieve some of the pressure but both he and Mother knew it would be hopeless. At this point she knew that her firstborn son was dying, and that now there was nothing any of us could do about it. I was in a state of total shock and disbelief, the information from the oncology unit, the admission to Marsh that they knew that the wrong injection had been given, was a thunderous punch in the gut. I knew the moment it had been given that it had been either wrong or given wrongly, I knew that I had let John down badly, and, seeing S motionless at his desk with something small in his hand, I knew that he knew that he had done something terribly wrong.

  If they had admitted this instead of making out that John had a haemorrhage the reservoir could have been emptied. But no, they chose i
nactivity, fudging and lying. When John was scanned upon arrival at the neurology unit there was obviously no sign of a haemorrhage, and ultimately, upon post mortem, there would be no sign of the cancer that had made him so sick in the first place.

  The ninth and tenth of November became a twenty-four-hour vigil, praying for a miracle, Henry Marsh and his quietly conscientious team doing all they could to make John comfortable. John’s lips were no longer reacting to the lemon-balm buds but I kept up the hope that I’d see another twitch or flicker of a reaction as I anointed them, stroked the inside of his arm between the needles, and whispered in his ears.

  Remembrance weekend ‘The poppies are in the fields’

  Over dinner of trout and mushrooms on toast and a fine rosé I apologized to Ange for being a bit under par, to say the least, during the week. We spoke of the tough weekend ahead, the tough week past, our plans for the next few weeks, the Lake District and Marrakech.

  Saturday 10 November

  Breakfast at The Wolseley with Ange, a stunning cloudless day, boiled eggs and soldiers like Mother used to make, runny for me, well done for Ange.

  As we got in I had a note from Pascale.

  For Papa, to John.

  Dear John,

  When I was little, I asked my dad, ‘If you could have dinner with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?’ We were sat in my room and I think he was brushing my hair after a bath. I can’t remember his response (maybe it was Alexandre Dumas, but I may have created that memory to fill a gap), though I remember my answer clearly. Without understanding of death, or my dad’s experience, and with only a few photos and stories, I answered my own question with the statement, ‘I would have dinner with John.’

  It has taken a long time since that day to realize why my dad’s eyes became foggy and why he hugged me so. It also took me a while to realize why that was my answer. I know and think of you as an extension of my dad. I can’t tell you apart in photos, and I can’t even see a difference in your handwriting. What I am able to see is how important you are. You’ve shaped my life and my relationship with my dad. I think it’s why my dad loves us so much. That’s why that was my answer.

  Initially I struggled with the situation and was scared to ask about details, as if my questioning would loosen the stitches of an old healed wound. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that talking about it helps my dad. You don’t ignore a wound. When he talks about you, I can see a change in his face, and his posture, he looks just like you looked in all those photos I used to look at when I was younger. That’s why I talk about it, and that’s why I am proud of my dad. I am thankful for everything you did to make my dad the person he is today.

  xx Pascale

  If you ever thought you loved someone so much that it’s impossible to love them any more, and then they do something that makes you do just that, then you’ll know how I felt as I read that note.

  To my mother’s, and the nearest restaurant that can seat eight on a rainy Saturday night. Jean-Marian and Ian and their beloveds, Ange and Mother either side of me. I know now that I’m looking across at my siblings in a different way, more protective, more brotherly, certainly more emotionally involved. The love and care had never not been there, it just feels like an enormous gap has been closed. It feels good to sit at the head of the table next to Mother, my hand with all its rings of amber and skulls covering her cold and frail one, as she softly smiles at all who surround her. Small gifts are given to all, a toast is raised to Johnny. It is suggested that Mother makes a speech, quite rightly she decides to say nothing, as do I; there is nothing to be said that does not already exist, it’s a mist that envelopes our every moment, an ever-present bruise on our broken hearts.

  Sunday 11 November

  Armistice Day

  One hundred years since the Armistice was signed between the Allies from World War One and the Germans at Compiègne in France. It is also the day that Johnny died.

  It was at 8.45a.m. on Wednesday 11 November 1987. The phone rang in the hallway and I rushed to sit in Mother’s old Orkney chair. She was calling from the Intensive Care unit to tell me that John had died twenty minutes earlier and that I was to come immediately to be with him. All the false hopes, the failed fightbacks, everything was shattered. I was utterly, utterly devastated. I walked slowly into the kitchen to embrace and tell Molly the awful news. Poor Molly, she cried and cried, her teacup fragmented on the kitchen tiles, while I tried desperately to hold it together. She just kept saying, ‘No, oh no, no.’ Somehow, as if walking through thick mud, I managed to get myself a taxi to the hospital. Mother was sitting in the bereavement room, the room where we had dreaded to tread. Today that room was ours.

  When a patient dies it is the staff’s duty to attempt everything to resuscitate them, as they had done just an hour previously with John. Mother had to beg them to stop, knowing that his brain had been destroyed by the levels of gentamicin. While the chaos of attempted resuscitation had been going on, in an act of utter vileness, the mother of a desperately ill youth who had crashed his motorcycle was seen stealing my mother’s purse. Mother was utterly exhausted, having been at John’s bedside for forty-eight hours with little or no rest, the staff were doing their duty to try to save him once more, and during that moment of ultimate horror and grief, she was robbed. Mother begged the woman to give back just one thing, she could keep the purse, the cash and the cards, but the purse contained a letter that I hadn’t known to exist. It was a letter Father had written at his desk, just before that final operation, just in case he never made it. The woman refused and Mother never saw it again.

  I felt such dread as I walked towards John’s bed. Mother went first, holding my hand, telling me to sit on the chair beside him, to hold his hand. All the tubes and drips had been removed, just the bandage around his head remained, his wisp of hair curling towards his closed eyes. Anyone who has experienced this moment knows that it is not easy to explain. Emotionally I was sapped, drained of all energy, the situation just seemed too unreal, it couldn’t possibly have happened to my Johnny, my stronger, firstborn identical twin who had gripped my face so tightly that it had scarred my face for life. My world had fallen down, I was a singleton, no longer ‘Mark I’ and ‘Mark II’, ‘Javid and Dyon’, just David. The confusion and horror of it all would take a long time to sink in. I looked to my mother, knowing that John would expect me to think of her first and foremost. As she went to meet Samantha, I stayed by his side, holding his hand. It was warm and there were still little shades of tan lines between his fingers.

  Other than the bandages around his head, his painfully thin body showed no signs of the horror he had endured in the past few months. The skin around his eyes, the crow’s feet that both he, me and my son Paros inherited from Father had softened and faded. I kissed his forehead, tucked the curl of hair into his bandages, stroked his lips once more, the inside of his arm, said that I was sorry, sorry for everything, and as I turned I saw Samantha and her parents rushing towards the bed. She was inconsolable and broken, utterly devastated and in disbelief. I made way for her as she collapsed heaving and sobbing at John’s side.

  I sat in the bereavement room for a while. Ian had been called, Jean-Marian and her newlywed husband Philip arrived. Peter Matthews had arrived, unaware that John had just died. I can remember little of the next few hours, of the passing of faces, hugs, tears; just a numbing fog of disbelief. Someone must have driven me back to The Beeches at some point, I remember Molly’s worried face at John’s bedroom door as I lay on his bed and she replaced cold undrunk cups of tea with fresh hot ones. I remember that the doorbell kept ringing, Molly answering to florists and messengers. I saw no one, only moving eventually from John’s room to my own.

  I remember Mother running me a bath. I hadn’t heard her come home but it must have been mid-evening. I heard the comforting sound of running water. Clean pyjamas were laid out. Molly tried to feed me but I couldn’t eat. I lay in the bath and cried for an hour. Everything was J
ohn, his toothbrush, his hairbrushes, our wet shavers, never to be used again, our 4711 inherited from Father, the oversized bath, fitted so that twins and their two little siblings could all be bathed together, sharing bathwater, measles, chickenpox and flu. John and I would spend an inordinate amount of time in that bath, hours on end, hogging it from the rest of the family. Our favourite was to drain the bath, I was always at the tap and plug end, then we’d lather each other up with Imperial Leather and sit as close to the taps as possible, me facing them, John with his arms and legs wrapped around me, tight as possible. I would push off with my legs and our lathered bodies would shoot, like a pair of reverse-sitting bobsleigh pilots along the overlong bath and up the slope of the back, faster and faster, gaining height with each thrust, tears of hysterical laughter echoing down the corridor, occasionally pushing so hard that we would launch like skateboarders in a board park, over the rim of the bath. Mother told a story last night that one night, aged three, we had been suspiciously quiet, having not yet learned the naked bobsleigh game; one of us had done a small tuddy (little poo) in the bathwater, a tiny floater, and we had made it into a little boat and were gently guiding it backwards and forwards with our toothbrushes, much to her chagrin.

  The bathroom was deafeningly silent that night. Eventually I got out, put on my father’s lovely clean, striped cotton pyjamas and sat for a while with Mother quietly on the edge of her bed. She had a notebook with her; she had been ringing relatives and friends but she was exhausted and as devastated as I had ever seen her. She suggested I try to sleep but I told her I couldn’t so she came with me into my room, tucking me into bed, stroking my hair like she did when we were kids. That night she gave me a hospital preoperative dose of temazepam, enough to knock someone out.