Chapter Six
Kate
Crossroads by Tracy Chapman
I hate changing from nights to days. I can fall into the rhythm of nights a little too easily perhaps, preferring the comparative quiet of the ward and the fewer people I have to interact with, but when I have to switch back… it’s hard.
When I have to return to the day shift after a week of nights, it’s like putting my mask back on.
And not a cool superhero one but the mask that I wear to liaise with consultants, colleagues, admin staff, porters, visitors and more, when all I want to do is keep my eye on patients and ensure they’re as comfortable as possible.
We’re also very, very busy at the moment with all the beds filled and yet the new ward is still months from opening, something I am actively trying to change.
In fact, I spent most of my first day shift this week upstairs overseeing some of the renovations and preparations for the new ward which will replace the one I’m working on.
Private rooms, better ventilation, more equipment, more comfortable beds, and the thing I spearheaded – three family rooms for patients and their loved ones to spend time together away from a bed.
And yes, these rooms will also be used to give families and friends a space to grieve and talk with a counsellor both before and after a patient’s passing.
It will be a vast improvement on the single windowless room we currently have, although I’ve tried to make it as comfortable as possible.
I was barely on my current ward and so only managed to get a rushed update from one of my senior staff nurses.
It was an odd experience finding out that Daniel Morgan was still a patient.
I had hoped after seeing him on Friday that he would be getting discharged within a few days, but apparently his oxygen levels dropped and so he needed further monitoring.
It was odd because I felt a little surge of joy hearing this news.
If he was still here, then likely so would Sharon.
I literally tutted at myself for feeling that way.
How irrational and unhelpful and pathetic of me to feel happy that a patient is still under my care, especially somebody like Danny who I hope has a long time ahead of him once he shakes this infection.
And frankly, how frustrating that I’m still thinking of Sharon Goldblatt at all.
Yet here I am, thinking about her again at the end of my shift while I wait for my bus, even if it is to only berate myself for thinking about her. And thus, I’m trapped in a cycle I don’t want to be trapped in.
Hopefully if he stays stable overnight, he will get discharged. Hopefully, after that, I never have to see her ever again.
I groan, close my eyes and count to ten. When I open them, I gasp.
Sharon Goldblatt is standing in front of me.
“I thought you were asleep,” she says as she moves to sit next to me, if sitting a good metre away can still be counted as such. But there’s nobody else here so I can guess it does. “Or dead.”
I scoff. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” I say before I can think about how utterly stupid those words are.
It feels like a great relief when Sharon doesn’t respond with anything other than a soft hum.
“You know we had to petition for this bench to be installed.” I place my hands on the plastic seat I’m perched on. “If you’ve noticed, not all London bus shelters have them.”
“I’ve noticed,” Sharon says with a short sniff.
“It seemed ridiculous, there not being a place to sit down for people waiting for a bus right outside the hospital, of all places.”
“Well, it worked,” Sharon says, still seemingly disinterested. “Your petitioning.”
“I usually get what I want when I set my mind to it,” I say, and I’m surprised when Sharon turns to me then and her face is anything but impartial. She looks away the second I meet her eyes, like my gaze burns her.
I turn my head away too and let the traffic blur past me.
Silence falls and I only move to look hopefully in the direction our buses will come, hoping her bus is on its way.
I should be hoping for mine but I’m not quite ready to be home alone just yet.
There’s something about seeing the city still moving, still carrying on, still living when sometimes it feels like time stops completely inside the hospital.
“You know Danny got sicker after that cigarette,” she says, her voice obviously raised but also not exactly steady.
I absorb her words, and her tone, and then I burst into laughter.
When I glance at her, Sharon looks horrified, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.
“What’s so funny?”
“You think that cigarette is what made his oxygen levels drop?” I try to tame my smile and wipe at the thin tears that leave my eyes.
“Well, isn’t it?”
I make sure my laughter has completely stopped before I reply. “Danny has a weakened immune system. His recovery from pneumonia was never going to be linear or straightforward.”
“But surely smoking a cigarette was a terrible idea?” Sharon’s voice is no longer so scornful. In fact, there’s an air of desperation in it. “And after you gave me such a hard time about the chocolate.”
“That was different. And maybe I was wrong to say what I said, because what’s good and what’s bad for someone like Danny all depends on how you look at it.
” I look away because her honey-coloured eyes have a golden glow in them thanks to the streetlight above us.
They’re so pretty, I can’t stand it. “On one hand, yes, smoking isn’t going to do him any favours, but it was one cigarette.
One. And it made him smile. It made him, possibly, feel like the Danny he was before…
” I don’t need to finish that sentence. “And it’s my experience, as a nurse who has looked after hundreds of patients like Danny, that smiling can go a long way. ”
“Smiling?”
“Yes, smiling. Feeling good. Being happy.”
Sharon snorts. “So why don’t you hire comedians or clowns to come in and entertain everyone?”
“You can choose not to believe me, but next time you’re up there—”
“Which will be tomorrow,” she butts in, arms folded.
“When you’re up there tomorrow, look around you.
See who is still there. See who is smiling or laughing or talking with someone.
See who has someone to visit them. Make a little note of it, and then see how long they’re an inpatient with us.
You’d be surprised how much it can help somebody to have something, someone to live for. ”
When Sharon doesn’t reply, doesn’t make any kind of noise, I think she’s going to ignore what I just said and go back to sulking about that cigarette Danny smoked.
The silence lasts so long, I start to think about that last sentence in relation to myself.
Do I even have somebody to live for? It’s too uncomfortable a question to think about, let alone find an answer to, so I eagerly search for a distraction.
Finally, I remember I have the latest copy of Lady Phantom in my bag.
I’ve read it countless times in the last week or so, but I’m still far from finished with it.
I like looking at each drawing for details I may have missed.
I like studying each and every one of Lady Phantom’s and the Director’s expressions, and what they say to each other, to see if there’s another little hint at their connection.
“I’ve already noticed that,” she tells me.
“I know the man next to Danny never has any visitors. Never. I know that he’s sleeping most of the time.
I know that the man opposite us, he cries during visiting hours, curled up on his side so nobody can see.
I know that the older gentleman, the one immediately on your right when you walk in—”
“Mr Smythe,” I tell her. Maybe it’s wrong to reveal his name, but I like for my patients to be referred to by their names.
“Mr Smythe,” she says. “I hear him always talking to the nurses about the same things – the same stories about his dog, about his old job as an interior designer, about his lover Roger – but he does it like it’s the most exciting topic. Like he’s itching to share that memory.”
“AIDS-related dementia,” I explain.
“Oh. I didn’t know that was a thing,” Sharon says in a quieter voice.
“I like his stories,” I tell Sharon. “Even though I’ve heard them all one hundred times.
But sometimes, just sometimes, he’ll add in an extra detail, a new character or a new conversation he suddenly remembers, and that makes it all worthwhile having to listen to the same thing.
And you should see his face when Roger comes in with new photos of their dog he’s just had developed.
No matter where his head is at, even if he doesn’t remember who Roger is, he always has a smile for him and his photos. ”
“I couldn’t do your job,” Sharon says with a big sigh.
I don’t feel like I have anything to say to that so I return my attention to Lady Phantom. A minute or so later, I’m aware that Sharon has moved. Closer. Her neck is craned towards me and her eyes are cast down on the comic.
Moving the comic closer to her, I keep it open. “Does that help?” There’s an edge in my voice. A very sarcastic one.
She shifts back immediately and tuts, although I can’t say if it’s directed at me or herself.
With a bemused smile I shake my head, return the comic to its previous position and continue studying one particular drawing of Lady Phantom and the Director.
“I haven’t been able to get that edition yet,” Sharon says after I had all but forgotten about what just happened.
“Oh,” I say.
“Between work and being here and not being able to go the day it came out because Danny was sick and getting admitted,” she continues, “I couldn’t get a copy before they all sold out.”
“And you can’t buy them just anywhere.”
“Exactly.”
We share a look of understanding, which feels… nice.
“Where do you get yours?”
“Comics Galore in Marble Arch.”
“Oh, I’ve heard that’s a good one. I called them actually to see if they still had stock but they didn’t. I normally go to Pages in Ealing.”
“Is that close to where you live?” I ask and then instantly regret it. I don’t care where she lives.
“Sort of. Danny and I live in Shepherd’s Bush.”
I nod.
“And you?” she asks. I resist the urge to narrow my eyes on her. It’s an innocent enough question.
“I live in Lancaster Gate. I could actually walk home from here,” I admit before she thinks it. “But I sort of like the bus ride. It helps me realise that the hospital isn’t the centre of the universe. That there is more going on.”
“Hmm,” Sharon says thoughtfully. I think it’s another one of her dismissive hums ending the conversation.
But it isn't. “I think to a lot of people this hospital is the centre of their universe, at least for a certain amount of time. I don’t think you should downplay the impact of your ward on people’s lives.
And I’m not just talking about the patients. ”
I am still processing Sharon’s words, chewing on them almost literally, when a wall of red enters my peripheral vision. I glance up just in time to see it’s Sharon’s 94 bus.
“Wait!” I say as she starts to walk towards the bus doors.
She turns with one foot up on the bus’s step.
I rush to her and push the comic into her hands. “Here,” I say. “I’ve read it more times than I can count and it’s a good one. You should read it.”
Sharon looks down at it.
“But I want it back!” I add.
The driver calls out something to Sharon and she steps up fully onto the bus. The doors close and the bus moves off but just before it does, I see her mouth the following words to me.
Thank you.
When I know I’m out of her sight, I smile and stare at the rear of the bus as it starts to get smaller.
“You’re welcome,” I say and then sit back on the bench.
I’m still smiling when my bus pulls up several minutes later.