Chapter 18
MARGE
‘How are you doing there, Marge?’
The voice woke her again, and as soon as she saw who it was, she smiled.
Keli was the other charge nurse on the ward. Nurse Yvie had already popped in before Marge fell asleep and said she’d soon be clocking off and would see her tomorrow morning. If Keli had come on shift now, that must mean it was around four o’clock.
‘I’m doing great, Keli,’ Marge replied, her words a shallow croak again. This blasted throat – every time she woke up it was just as dry as before.
‘Let me get you a drink, Marge. Do you need anything else?’
Her health. If she could have one thing right now, one wish, it would be to have her health back.
Or maybe just to rewind the days and do them over again, this time not wasting a single moment, especially on things that didn’t matter.
How much time had she spent worrying about things that didn’t happen?
Or fretting over something that she couldn’t even remember a week or a month later?
How much time had she spent at work, making sure someone else’s life was as smooth and organised as it could possibly be, at the expense of her own?
Not that she’d grudged the time she spent on her career.
It had been fulfilling. She’d taken pride in it and she hoped that she’d made a difference, in the background somewhere, whether it was rearranging Kenneth’s schedule to fit in an extra surgery that could save someone’s life, or going above and beyond to help a patient’s family deal with the trauma of a sick loved one.
That had mattered to her and she’d been privileged to do it.
She saw that same vocation in Yvie, Jeanie, Keli and the rest of the staff here too.
‘No, nothing else. Just juice, please.’
There was a familiar clicking sound as Keli went round to the other side of the bed, thanks to the tiny beads at the ends of the braids she wore pulled back into a ponytail.
Marge had actually met Keli’s brother once or twice over the years too.
Noah Clark was a consultant paediatrician down on the children’s ward, and he’d consulted with Kenneth on a couple of children’s cases on Kenneth’s very occasional NHS service too.
When Marge had first started working for Kenneth, he’d focused almost exclusively on private patients, but over the years, he’d taken on a few specific NHS cases that interested him, either because they were particularly challenging or because the patient had a high profile or a well-connected relative who called in a favour.
Selective lifesaving. How could that kind of power not affect a person?
There were two jugs on Marge’s bedside chest – one with water and one with orange squash. Keli poured some juice into plastic tumbler and handed it over to her, then waited, ready to help, as Marge managed to raise it her mouth to take a few sips.
‘Thank you.’ Marge said, giving the tumbler back.
‘You’re very welcome. Do you need anything else? Are you in any pain?’
Marge shook her head and Keli gently patted her hand. ‘Okay, that’s good. Let me just have a quick check of everything else then.’
It was a familiar routine – the blood oxygen monitor on the finger, and the temperature check first. Then the blood pressure cuff on her arm and the squeezing sensation, then the beep that seemed to take longer to reach as her arms got thinner. Or maybe it was just that time was passing slower.
After every task, Keli wrote on her chart, until everything was complete and she hung it back on the end of the bed. ‘Right then, Marge, that’s you for another four hours of blissful peace until I come and do that all over again.’
‘Thank you.’ Marge meant it. She was so grateful for their care.
She expected Keli to leave, but instead, the nurse sat down next to her bed.
‘I just got word that a bed has opened up down in palliative care, Marge, so we can move you down there tomorrow. It’s a bright, sunny room, and Liv, the ward manager down there, is a wonderful nurse.
She’ll take such good care of you, I promise. ’
As she nodded, Marge tried to take calming breaths, desperate to stay strong and not put this lovely nurse in the stressful position of having to console a sick patient who was fighting against her fate.
There was no point in weeping and even silent tears had caused her throat to ache more since the intubation.
Besides, she’d known this was coming, so it wasn’t a surprise.
They’d discussed it many times over the last couple of weeks and the plan had always been to move her there when a bed became available.
‘They’ll give you the very best quality of life and Estelle will get the proper support down there too, Marge. They might even be able to get you home, if that’s what you want.’
Marge managed a very gentle shake of her head.
No. She didn’t want to go home. She’d lived alone since Ian died, and if she were to go back there now, it would put all of the pressure on Estelle.
That wasn’t what she wanted. She had no desire to burden her daughter with that kind of responsibility.
At least here, Estelle had a professional support system outside the door twenty-four hours a day.
Palliative care was Marge’s choice, and maybe a hospice when the time came.
‘Okay, Marge, I understand,’ Keli said softly, and Marge felt the gentle rub of the nurse’s thumb against the back of her hand and gave a silent thanks once again for her kindness. ‘Dinner will be here shortly and then I’ll check back in on you, but if you need me, you know to just buzz.’
‘Thank you.’ An audible one this time, as Keli left to the sound of hair bead clicks and soft shoes on the floor.
Alone. It was so rare, that Marge felt such a peace from the silence, but it didn’t last for long. Maybe seconds later, maybe minutes, the calm was shattered with the sound of screams. Her screams.
‘Marge, I’m right here. Just tell me what to do. Tell me how I can help.’ But, of course, he couldn’t.
‘Just you stay exactly where you are and keep rubbing her shoulders,’ Marge heard the nurse say, just as another contraction gripped her.
They’d been at home, sound asleep when the contractions had started, a week earlier than expected.
Of course, though, her hospital bag was ready, as it had been for the last two months, fully stocked, checked and double-checked, according to the list that had been provided by their prenatal nurse at one of the classes that they’d attended religiously.
‘This is going to be the most organised baby that ever entered this world,’ Marge would joke, as Ian would come home with yet another baby book from the library, or she would speak to a medical professional in that field, and take down copious notes to be compiled and studied later.
The subject of the child’s father had been something they’d deliberated in the first days of their engagement, when they’d analysed different courses of action and settled on the one they felt to be the most morally sound.
They’d contemplated the options for a couple more days, sat with their decision, and concluded that their chosen course of action was the best for all concerned.
The child’s father had to be told. It was the only way, because how could they ever admit later that they had deprived the child of the chance to be loved just because it was an uncomfortable situation? No, there should be no secrets.
Over the next few days, they’d sat at the kitchen table and written draft after draft of a letter, until they were both satisfied that it conveyed everything that needed to be said.
The finished missive read…
I need to inform you that I am pregnant – something that will become very clear over the next few months.
I’ve thought about many ways to broach this with you, but I’m afraid there was no way to do it that wouldn’t involve distressing exchanges and possibly words said that couldn’t later be retracted.
Therefore, I wanted to put everything down on paper, to ensure that it is clear and there can be no misunderstandings.
The child is yours and will be born in October, all being well. I have decided to keep it, and I am not open to discussion on this point. However, I do recognise that this is my decision alone, and you must also have free choice in this matter.
I shall leave it up to you to decide if you wish to be a part of this child’s life, and if so, what role you would like to play.
I would welcome your participation in the baby’s life, but I want to be clear that I will honour your decision either way.
Furthermore, should you choose not to be a part of the child’s life, I will neither expect nor demand any contribution from you, financially or in any other capacity.
In short, you can choose to parent this child, or never acknowledge that this child is yours.
If the latter is your choice, then I will fully accept it.
All I ask is that we never discuss it again, and that you destroy this letter.
Since the night of the child’s conception, we have moved on, never discussing it, and acting in a professional and cordial manner.
I request that same courtesy is extended in the future.
She’d thought of a couple of ways to deliver it but discounted them both.
Posting it carried risks that it could go missing or be opened by someone else.
If she had it delivered by courier, and got no response, she’d never be positive that he’d received it and there might always be an element of doubt.
In the end, she’d put the message in the letter to the test, by delivering it to him personally, putting it in his hands so that she would always know that he was fully aware of her situation.
‘What’s this?’ he’d asked, nothing but curiosity in his expression.
‘A choice,’ Marge had answered. ‘And please take the words on board, as I mean every one of them.’
That was how she’d left it. Ball in his court.
Another scream and this time the midwife reacted with a hint of calm, professional urgency. ‘Okay, Marge, this is it. On the next contraction, I want you to push, okay? A deep breath, then press down as hard as you can.’
Always someone who followed the rules to the letter, that was exactly what Marge did.
And then, at the instruction of the midwife, she repeated it on the next contraction too.
And that was when the sensation changed, as did her world, because Estelle came quietly, with only a gentle cry to alert them to her arrival.
Marge’s first feeling was an overwhelming, gushing sensation of love.
Her second was sadness that the baby’s father would never feel that same adoration for his child.
Because from the moment she’d given him the letter, he’d acted like it had never existed.
No conversation. No reply. No acknowledgement of any kind.
Instead, he’d carried on as if, like their encounter, it had never happened.
She supposed she should take heart in the fact that he’d abided by at least one of her requests.
It was the least he could do. The very least.
And perhaps it was for the best, because she watched, as the midwife handed her swaddled child over to the man that she had married just six months before, in a simple ceremony at the registry office, witnessed by strangers, but sealed by the kind of love and commitment that Marge knew would last their lifetimes.
A man who was twice the person that Estelle’s biological father would ever be.
‘Oh, Marge, she’s perfect.’ Ian whispered, before handing her over. ‘Here you go, my darling. Here’s our daughter.’