Chapter Ten
Kate
Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Tears For Fears
I’m seeing this sign too often, I think as I read the words mindlessly, already knowing full well how to dispose of needles safely. But it’s all I have to try and occupy my brain, to try and keep myself away from the tsunami of sorrow that always feels like it’s inching closer and closer.
But I have to stay ahead of it. Because if it sucks me under, I have a very real fear I’ll never surface.
Mr Smythe. Mr Smythe died. With Roger lying on his bed next to him and a photo of his dog in his hand, he passed away with almost no sound at all, which should have comforted me.
When most of my patients die, I want it to be as peaceful as possible.
I want there to be no pain and no reason for them to cry or call out.
But with Mr Smythe, as I stood back and let them have their time together, all I wanted was noise.
All I wanted was for him to wake up again and tell me the same story about his dog Harry humping a rock in Brockwell Park, or for him to ask me if I knew about the time he designed the bathrooms in Elton John’s London property.
Just yesterday he’d told me a whole new story, about his childhood, about how his mother would take him to the Victoria and Albert Museum once a month and that was how he got his love for design and art and ‘pretty things’ as he called them.
But maybe I should have known from that.
That surge of energy, that deep dive into his past that came from nowhere.
So many men on this ward are at their very best just a moment before they pass on for good.
Maybe it was worse because Roger was there. Maybe I’ve been wrong to think it’s more tragic for the many men who die without a companion or loved one by their side. Because I don’t think I’ll forget the rough, rib-straining noises Roger made as he started to sob after I called time of death.
But I have to. I have to press on. I have other patients. I will always have other patients.
I’m nodding at a few of these patients as I walk out of the staff toilets and head to the nurses’ station.
I go behind the counter and wipe Mr Smythe’s name off the whiteboard.
On top of the counter, somebody has already lit the candle we always light when a patient passes, and when I notice the wax running low, I make a mental note to see if we have more.
I swear I only replaced it a few weeks ago.
“He was a lovely old one, wasn’t he?” Joanna, a young nurse, originally from Antigua, says from next to me.
“Yes, he was,” I say.
“I suppose we should be grateful he was that. Older, I mean,” she adds, but still I don’t turn to look at her.
“Where’s Roger?”
“In the family room, with Tyler,” she says, referring to our counsellor, a gay man who lost his boyfriend back in 1983 and retrained as a therapist as a result. “A fresh bed is on its way up already.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
Joanna is a young and energetic nurse, just a few years out from qualifying. She reminds me of how I used to be. I hope she doesn’t lose her spark like I fear I have.
“Oh, I meant to ask you,” she says as she files some paperwork in one of the plastic trays behind the counter. “Did you find someone?”
“Did I… what?” I finally look at her.
“For your thing tomorrow night,” Joanna says tucking her pen back in her pocket. “You asked me to go with you but Kevin is taking me out that night.”
“Oh, yeah, no,” I say. “I didn’t, but I think I’m going to go anyway.”
I don’t tell her that I’m terrified of doing so.
Joanna nudges me. “Good on you! Don’t let being single stop you from living your life!”
Maybe it shouldn’t be insulting when a twenty-three-year-old is telling me this but it feels like an effort when I smile back.
Our phone rings and I reach for it but Joanna is closer.
“Princess Diana Ward,” she says and flashes me a smile. I move away to my in-tray and sift through the new post that has come in. “Oh, right, yes, we do have a bed, actually. Send him up. Okay. What’s the name? Oh, yes, we remember him. I'll dig out his notes... Yep, okay, we’ll be waiting.”
She puts the phone down and then moves to the cupboard under the counter, making up a new clipboard. “Another prodigal son,” she says – our nickname for patients who return to the ward. “Daniel Morgan. Do you remember him?”
Daniel. Danny.
Sharon.
“Yeah, I remember him,” I say, and I hold my hand out for the clipboard. “I’ll check him in.”
“He’ll have to go in Mr Smythe’s cubicle,” Joanna says. “I’ll call the porter to find out where that new bed is.”
But just as she picks up the phone, the lift doors ping open and a bed emerges, pushed by Winston, one of my favourite porters.
“Xiao Hong, jiejie!” he calls out to me, a big smile on his face that bunches up clusters of wrinkles around his dark brown eyes.
His wife is Chinese and so he goes to great pains to impress me with his Mandarin and loves nothing more than to use my real name and call me jiejie, or big sister, on account of my position as ward manager, even though he’s several decades older than me. “How are you?”
“Winston,” I say, and my smile comes a little easier, but I reply in English. “Good to see you.”
“A nice clean bed for you,” he says, his Jamaican accent almost melodic to my ears. “Where do you want it?”
“Follow me,” I say and I lead him to the first spot in the ward, which looks starkly empty now it’s been completely wiped of any evidence that Mr Smythe was here.
I can smell the disinfectant we use to mop floors and I am momentarily taken aback by how quickly things can happen in this place.
How quickly death can appear and then suddenly disappear.
Or, rather, not disappear but return to lingering in the shadows.
“Thank you, Winston,” I say once he’s got the bed in position and put the brakes on the wheels.
“For you, always a pleasure,” he says with another charming smile.
“Send my regards to Mei-ling,” I say in Mandarin as he starts to walk away.
She often brings him lunch during the day and more than a few times I’ve seen him walk her down to the main entrance below.
Every time they say goodbye they press their lips together for many long seconds and I swear time seems to stop completely until they part.
I didn’t even feel that when Tao used to kiss me.
I’m making the new bed when I hear a voice that makes my top lip curl up.
“Oh, she does still work here.”
I finish smoothing down the top sheet and then straighten up. Turning to face Sharon Goldblatt, I keep my expression as blank as I can.
“Lovely to see you again too,” I say and then soften my tone when I look at Daniel. “And you, Danny.”
“Well, forgive me for saying it’s not exactly my pleasure.” I think he’s trying to smile but it definitely looks more like a grimace as he leans on Sharon.
Joanna gestures to the bed. “Sit down here, Mr Morgan.”
“Danny, please,” he groans as he sits. “Don’t make me feel older than I already do.”
“Yes, Mr… Danny.”
“I’ll take it from here, Joanna,” I say and give her a nod of dismissal.
“So, Danny, how are you feeling?” I ask as he shifts up the bed and leans back against the pillows I’d plumped up not two minutes ago.
I hear a soft snort on the other side of the bed as Sharon puts the bags she was holding down.
“Excuse me?” I say with a cocked eyebrow.
“Well, it’s a silly question, isn’t it?” she asks before plonking her full body down in the chair beside Danny’s bed. A chair that not two hours ago was draped with one of the woollen jumpers Mr Smythe liked to wear at night. “He’s in hospital. Again. So obviously he doesn’t feel well.”
“Hmm.” I drop our eye contact and stare at the clipboard in front of me. “You’re quite right. It’s almost like I want to find out more about that so I can, you know,” I look up again and find her golden-honey eyes, “do my job.”
With a quick huff, Sharon folds her arms over her chest – which still looks as luscious and heavy as I remember – and then looks at Danny.
“You really wanted to come back to this ward?” she asks him.
Danny’s eyes are half-closed and he looks suddenly exhausted. “You made me promise to go back to hospital when I didn’t feel well. You didn’t specify which hospital I could or couldn’t go to.”
I inch closer to Danny, looking at his neck. Silence lands between us and I can feel both his and Sharon’s eyes on me.
“They’re all over his body too,” Sharon says eventually.
“Can I touch you, Danny?” I ask, although I really don’t think I need to.
He nods and I pull the collar of his T-shirt down. An archipelago of lesions reveals itself, the older ones darker and bigger.
“Open your mouth, please.” I pull out my torch and look into Danny’s open mouth. I see at least three more sarcomas.
“Any chest pain? Night sweats?”
“No,” he closes his mouth, “and yes.”
“You didn’t mention that,” Sharon mutters.
“You didn’t ask,” he snaps back.
I’m abruptly aware of a tension between them that wasn’t there when they were here before. It stretches between them like elastic pulled too taut, ready to snap at any moment.
“Well, you know the drill, Danny. We’ll take some bloods. Find out what your T-cell count is and I’ll get the doctor to see you as quickly as possible.”
“Oh, don’t rush. Doctor Do-Everything over here,” he points weakly at Sharon, “has already diagnosed me.”
“It’s Kaposi’s sarcoma, isn’t it? The cancer that AIDS patients get?”
“It certainly looks like it,” I say, knowing there’s no room for anything but honesty in this moment.
“And can you do anything? To treat it?” Sharon asks.
“Yes.” I give a slow nod, but it’s more in Danny’s direction than hers. “But that will depend on a number of factors. The doctor is the best person to answer your questions.”
“And don’t tell me,” Sharon tuts. “He’ll be doing his rounds after visiting hours are over?”
“She,” I say with great emphasis and some pleasure, “will come as soon as she can. I will try and reach her now, in fact.”
I smile at Danny, who looks like he’s already half-asleep, but still he offers me a drowsy smile and I give Sharon a quick glance, which she doesn’t reciprocate as she’s staring worriedly at Danny. Then I leave their space and pull the curtain closed behind me.
For a moment, I stand there and wait to hear if Sharon has anything to say about me now she thinks I’m out of earshot. I’m almost disappointed when she doesn’t.
*****
Dr Lakshitha confirms Danny has Kaposi’s sarcoma when she inspects his lesions, which are more numerous on his torso and legs.
It’s something of a miracle that he doesn’t have any on his hands or face, although it is possible he’s covering them up.
I’ve seen men go to great lengths to hide their lesions.
His chest seems clear, she reports, and I take notes accordingly, but she is concerned about his weight loss which Sharon confirms has drastically worsened in the last few weeks.
“So, Daniel,” she says as she stands beside his bed. “I’m afraid you have too many sarcomas for us to operate on them and radiation therapy wouldn’t be effective either. Chemotherapy could be an option but I would like to first get your blood results back and do some further tests.”
“What further tests?” Sharon jumps in, and I know kind-hearted Dr Lakshitha isn’t going to give her a dirty look so I do it for her even though she isn’t looking at me.
“The blood tests will tell us what we want to know for the most part, about how strong Daniel’s immune system is right now, but I would like to check his oxygen levels, check he’s hydrated and monitor Daniel for a few days to see how he is in himself. You seem very tired right now?”
“Yeah,” Danny says. “But I’ve not had much sleep recently so that may just be it.”
“Okay, well,” she gives him a reassuring smile, “let’s see if you can catch up on some sleep over the next forty-eight hours and then we’ll finalise a treatment plan.”
“So there will be one,” Sharon butts in again. “A treatment plan. You’re not just going to let it get worse?”
For the first time since I’ve met her, I hear something in Sharon’s voice that I haven’t heard before. Fear. Panic. Desperation. The type of feelings that have claws and teeth and sharp, sharp nails. Roger’s sobs echo in my ears again.
“Yes, of course we will do whatever we can to try and help Daniel.” It’s a clever response from Dr Lakshitha and I find myself feeling almost devious when I start hoping it works on Sharon.
Dr Lakshitha turns to me and starts listing off the blood tests she wants me to run, and then she says goodbye to Danny and Sharon and beckons for me to follow her on her rounds.
Before I do fall into step beside her, I pause at the end of Danny’s bed and look at Sharon.
“The best thing you can do is not to worry too much,” I say, very specifically to her. “You both need your energy for other things right now.”
Sharon snorts at me. “Well, thanks for that completely useless advice.”
“I don’t know, Shaz, it makes a lot of sense to me.” Danny wriggles down further under the sheets.
Sharon snorts again but doesn’t say anything else.
“Seriously,” I say and I deliberately soften my voice. “You are worried about this being the end but you could be greatly underestimating just how long this could take. You don’t fully appreciate how much of a marathon this is.”
“Yet more helpful advice.” Her eyes change colour, darkening to a hard, wood-like brown. “Thank you so much,” she says, each word dripping in sarcasm.
I give up. I was trying to help, but I just give up with this woman.
“You’re welcome,” I say with as much venom as I can muster and then I move on to find Dr Lakshitha.