When I arrived at the hospital I thought I might be sick. I had known something was wrong. It was a feeling that I’d woken up with and had been unable to shake. Walking along the corridor towards the intensive care unit I focused on the echo of my footsteps. For a hospital it seemed very quiet. I passed a nurse in a blue uniform alongside a young man, her hand around his shoulder. He sobbed. I walked faster.
Pushing open the heavy swinging doors, I ignored the sign that told me to wash my hands. I didn’t have time for that now. My daughter was in there along with my grandchild, and I needed to get to them.
An elderly Nigerian nurse with grey hair around her temples stood up from behind a desk at smiled at me. I gave my name, Ingrid, and my daughter’s, Monica. The nurse stopped smiling. The matron nodded gravely and whisked me towards one of the closed doors. My stomach did a flip.
‘You’s can’t go in dares. Wet for dem dactars. Day will tell you’s what’s is happenin’. Sit yourself dawn and I’lls get you a nice hat cap of some din to help steady dem nerves.’
I did as she was told and perched down on a plastic chair by the door. I didn’t want tea. All I wanted was to be with my daughter. I fiddled with my keys, busying my hands. Glancing at a clock on the wall I saw that it was nearly five o’clock. Then I remembered I was meant to be at the hairdresser getting my roots done. I should not have been sitting outside a room waiting to hear the fate of my family.
The nurse turned and slid away to fetch me a drink as I sat in the eerie silence of the ward. All I could hear was the beeping from life support machines and it made me want to cry. I am meant to die first, I thought to myself. I hoped and pleaded I would never have to bury my child.
For the first time since I was a little girl, I prayed. As a young teenager I’d lost my faith, much to the disapproval of my pious parents. I closed my tired eyes and imagined my daughter recovering. Suddenly I felt old, as I looked down at my hands and noticed the ageing skin. They were not soft like Monica’s hands. Monica had lovely soft white skin and long delicate fingers. I wished I could hold my daughter’s hand in my own.
As I got up out of my seat deciding I would seek out a doctor and demand to be told what was happening, the doors into the ward swung open and I saw Mary and Richard approaching.
Richard was a short, portly man who was balding and always appeared to be frowning. He had deep lines around his eyes and on his forehead. From behind him appeared Mary, who looked ashen white. Her hazel eyes were sunk back into her skull and her dyed strawberry blonde hair looked dry and brittle. She was a bony woman with a large nose and plump mouth. I liked them both but we had nothing in common apart from the marriage of our children. We shared a friendly but formal relationship. I suspect I was too bohemian for them. Mary and Richard were nice enough, but square.
Suddenly I felt very guilty. I hadn’t given much thought to the wellbeing of Tom. The couple approached me, and Mary and I hugged. Mary began to cry while Richard walked over to the door and tried to peer through the frosted glass to see inside. It was hopeless.
‘Hello, Ingrid. What have they told you?’ Richard was brisk and to the point. No time for niceties.
‘Nothing as of yet. I’m waiting to see a doctor.’
I held tightly onto Mary’s skeletal hand. Mary’s eyes were pricked with tears and she couldn’t bring herself to speak. Her husband looked around furiously as though he was hoping to find a more satisfactory answer.
‘I’m sure they will all be all right. We would have heard if…’ My words trailed off as the kindly nurse reappeared holding a steaming polystyrene cup. ‘Richard Bowness, Tom’s father,’ he said, extending a hand formally as though it was a business meeting. The nurse, who wore a badge bearing the name Denise, handed the cup of beige liquid to me.
‘You’s need to come wit’ me,’ she addressed the couple, ‘Dis way, please.’
Mary turned and I saw the horror that filled her eyes. I gestured encouragingly and sat back down as my in-laws were led away down the corridor. I was alone again and could not shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was seriously wrong. All I wanted was to be close to my daughter. With sudden urgency, I stood up and pushed open the door into my daughter’s room.
It was a small sterile space filled with machines and wires and tubes. The room smelt of disinfectant. I held my breath as I took a few tentative steps towards the large mechanical bed. The woman lying in front of me, purple and swollen, did not look like my daughter. Suddenly I felt giddy and reached out a hand to steady myself.
Monica was attached to various machines and had a large tube coming out of her mouth. Her face was covered in splintered cuts and there was a large gash over her left eyebrow that had been recently stitched. It looked sore and raw and I wanted to stroke it and sooth her pain away.
I inched closer and gently rested my hand on top of Monica’s. It felt small and warm. There was no response from my daughter. I hung my head and let out a long sigh. At times like this I wished my husband were still alive.
Jim had died nearly three years earlier. When playing tennis at his club, he had suffered a fatal and unexpected heart attack. Both Monica and I had been devastated. He was a wonderful father and a doting husband. I had gone to Addenbrooke’s hospital in Cambridge to identify his body. Now I was there in the Whittington Hospital in Archway, this time standing over the battered figure of my daughter. My stomach did a somersault.
I jumped as the door opened behind me. A young male doctor with trendy glasses glanced down at the notes that hung on a board at the end of Monica’s bed. A freckled nurse with a short boyish haircut and a number of stud earrings in her lobes stood inspecting the various monitors.
‘I’m her mother,’ I said, stepping out of the nurse’s way while she read long reels of paper decorated with indecipherable charts.
‘Ah, yes, Mrs?’
‘Whitman,’ I answered.
‘Mrs Whitman, you’ll be glad to hear the operation was a success.’
The doctor fiddled with a biro, repeatedly clicking the end.
‘Operation? What operation?’
From where I stood by the machines I could feel the nurse glaring at the doctor, who moved uncomfortably on the spot.
‘The hysterectomy.’ The young doctor looked grave. I looked down at my daughter. None of it made sense.
‘Hysterectomy? But she is pregnant…’
The words echoed around the room. The doctor looked down at his tan loafers and I noticed how tall he was. I could see that, although he was young, his mousy hair was thinning. He stopped playing with his pen and lifted his face to look at me.
‘What do you mean?’ I grew aware of the high pitch of my voice. ‘The baby … her baby … what about the baby?’ my words lost momentum.
‘I am very sorry.’ The words travelled through me like a bullet. Monica was only thirty-one years old. Her whole life should have been ahead of her.
The nurse in blue overalls approached and put her hand on my shoulder.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
I sank into a grey chair and put my head in my hands.
‘No. No thank you. I don’t want any more tea.’
The nurse addressed the doctor, ‘Her stats look normal.’ He gave a small nod of satisfaction as she excused herself and left the room. I remained slumped in the chair and could feel the doctor’s eyes burning into the top of my head. Slowly he approached and pulled up an orange plastic chair close beside me.
‘Mrs Whitman, I am Dr Frampton, your daughter’s consultant.’ He had a soothing voice.
‘I suppose Tom gave you the go-ahead?’ I sounded defeated.
‘We had no choice. She lost the child in the crash. She was bleeding heavily. The operation saved her life. She should make a full recovery.’ The doctor paused. I could see he was struggling with something else he wished to say.
‘I’m afraid I have to inform you that your son-in-law passed away. His side of the car took the brunt of the impact. He was brought to us with severe head injuries. He suffered a fatal brain haemorrhage. There was nothing we could do. I am very sorry.’
I shook my head. This could not be happening. All the information that I needed to absorb swirled around my head. My daughter had lost everything: her husband, her child, her womb. As I looked over at the small skeletal figure that lay lifeless in the bed, my eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh, dear God, my baby.’ I squeezed my daughter’s hand tightly.
‘For the moment we are keeping her heavily sedated. As I say, she has lost a lot of blood and sustained some quite serious injuries. She has two cracked ribs, damage to her neck and has broken one of her legs. We have put pins in it and she will be able to walk without any problems but she’ll need weeks of bed rest. For the moment we are going to keep her here in intensive care but she should be moved to one of the other wards in the next twenty-four hours. If you would like to stay, we have a relatives’ room. Do you live nearby?’
‘No. No, I’ve come from Cambridge.’
Dr Frampton looked at my face. He looked at me as though I reminded him of a favourite teacher who had taught him at school.
The young doctor stood up and edged towards the door. My gaze was fixed on my daughter’s wounded face.
‘I have other patients to see.’ He was apologetic.
‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’
‘Denise, the ward matron, will be doing her rounds and can be found at the reception desk any time. I appreciate this must be a very difficult time for you but your daughter will be all right.’
He slipped away quietly, pulling the door closed behind him.
‘My poor darling. My poor, poor darling.’
I tucked my daughter’s white bedsheet up under her chin and felt a wave of exhaustion swell along with a gush of tears. The moment I received the news, I’d driven as fast as my ageing red Volvo would go. I had come home that afternoon to discover a number of messages from both Mary and the hospital on my answering machine. I cursed myself for not having a mobile. I’d been convinced that owning one was unnecessary and now I bitterly regretted it.
My fingers gently brushed the dark fringe off Monica’s brow, as I used to when she was tucked up in bed before I told my little girl I loved her and kissed her goodnight. Her pale forehead felt clammy to the touch. She looked much the same now as she had done as a child. I remembered her as a ten-year-old, in bed with flu. I was glad to be able to touch my daughter and thought of Tom. Poor Richard and Mary. I felt torn. Part of me wanted to stay with my daughter but I knew I should go and be with the grieving parents. I crossed my arms on the bed and rested my forehead. The sheets felt cool and smelt clean. I wanted to go to sleep and for it all to be just a bad dream.
The noise from the various machines whirled around my head. I felt sick and watched as my hands began to shake. How was I going to tell Monica that she had lost her baby and her husband? My brow furrowed with pain as I looked at my child.
‘Sleep now, my darling, sleep. I need to be with Richard and Mary. I will be back soon, I promise. I love you.’
I kissed my child’s fingers and touched the top of her head as I got up out of my seat. Before leaving the room I took a last look at my delicate girl lying in the hospital bed. Then I closed my eyes and quietly said to myself, ‘Dad is going to look after you, my angel. He will watch over you while I’m gone.’ Although I have no faith in religion I believe strongly in the spirit world. I left the room and made my way back towards where I had met Tom’s parents.
Returning to the waiting room, I looked around, not knowing where to go. A young Indian man was pushing a mop around the vinyl floor, listening to an MP3 player and bopping his head. I shifted in my boots and rubbed my heels together. What could I say when I saw them? What should I say? I remained there locked inside my own thoughts when I noticed that the hospital worker had stopped mopping and stood with his head cocked to one side, watching me.
‘Is you all right?’ the young man asked.
‘No, not really.’ I responded with more honesty than I intended. The tall slender man rubbed his forehead and looked at the floor.
‘I need to find a couple who are here. I saw them earlier. They’re not ill, they are relatives. Where might they be?’
‘All depends where de patient is, like.’ He rubbed the mop between the palms of his hands. I ruffled my blonde hair and tried to think.
‘I need to find them now. They aren’t here to see a patient. It’s their son. He’s dead. He died.’
My eyes began to fill with tears. It suddenly hit me that the death of my son-in-law would have a momentous effect on me too. I had only been thinking of Monica before and the emotional impact it would have on her. Now in the stark waiting room the sadness of it all hit me. Losing all control I crumpled to my knees, while the young man stood helplessly in front on me. I could feel his awkwardness but was unable to restrain myself. The floor felt hard and cold through my trousers. I realised it was still damp from mopping.
After a few moments the young man bent down.
‘Can I do some fink for you?’ He was kinder than his rough exterior appeared.
‘I … I …’ I blubbed. The man inched closer.
‘I can take you’s to the relatives’ room if you like.’
My shoulders shook but no sound came out. I felt like a fool. How dare I react like this? I still had my child, unlike Monica. Unlike Richard and Mary. That thought snapped me out of the misery.
‘Do you think that’s where they’ll be?’ I wiped my eyes with the sleeves from my jumper, smudging mascara down my cheeks. A small drip of snot hung from the end of my nose and I gave a quick deliberate sniff.
‘Well I can’t be sure but it’s worth a go.’
I nodded silently and got up off the floor and gestured with my hand for him to lead the way. He put his mop back in the bucket and pushed it against the cream-coloured wall. Then the man sunk his hands deep into his overall pockets and headed along a corridor I had not been down. He took long quick strides and I tottered along behind, struggling to keep up on my chunky high heels. The sound of us walking echoed around and bounced off walls that were decorated with various murals intended to inspire peace and tranquillity.
After working our way through a maze of corridors that all looked the same, we came upon a door marked ‘Relatives’ Room’. I felt lost, both physically and mentally. The cleaner who had been so kind took a step back and waited for me to enter. I stood still, holding my breath. I needed to be ready and wanted to be strong for them. A rush of cold ran over my body and I hugged myself.
‘Good luck.’ The young man with dark eyes stepped away and hurried off back in the direction from which we came. The solid door was all that stood between death and I. It was an unusual feeling. I pictured Mary inside and it pulled my heartstrings. I straightened myself and lifted my head up. Then, holding my breath, I slowly pushed open the laminate beech door. In doing so, I noticed my knuckles turn white.