I took a mindfulness class once. Wasn’t for me. But I remember one instruction quite clearly; the five breaths per minute technique. Breathe in for six seconds, breathe out for six seconds. I’ve been trying to apply this since Douglas and Elaine left me a few minutes ago, but it’s a difficult technique to maintain; especially when you have a multitude of stuff whizzing through your mind. I’ve tried leaning fully flat out on the bed, tried half sitting up with the pillow behind the arch of my back, tried fully sitting up while resting my head against the steel bed frame. But nothing seems to be helping me calm down.
I keep seeing Betsy’s little face. I always imagine her as she was – four years of age; mousy brown hair, a dash of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I can never quite imagine what she would look like now. She’d have turned twenty-one last August. A bona fide adult. I’m pretty certain she would have ended up being something special. Guess I’ll never know.
I press both shoulder blades firm against the bedpost, then close my eyes and attempt to concentrate on my six-second breaths. I’m refusing to even look at the bedside cabinet my phone is currently resting in. Poor old Lenny Moon out there running around for me when I don’t even need him to anymore. But fuck it; he got a grand for his morning’s work and, given his appearance, I’m guessing that’s quite a lot of dosh for him. He’ll be fine. Last thing I heard from him he was on his way to Jake and Michelle’s house. I’d love to know how that went… but I can’t turn on my phone, can’t ring him. It’ll only raise my heart rate again.
Six seconds in through the nose… six seconds out through the nose.
I can’t stop my mind from swirling. It’s too quiet. Maybe I need a little background noise to help me focus. I pick up the TV remote control, hold down the standby button.
Loose Women. Fuck that! Jesus, if there’s anything that will raise my heart rate it’s watching that shite. News. No! More news. No! Ah… a music channel. Maybe. But it’s blaring out some awful hip-hop song that can barely be filed under the medium of music as far as I’m concerned. No! A crappy, dated American sitcom. No! Fuck it. I tap at the standby button again. The screen blinks off.
Six seconds in through the nose… six seconds out through the nose.
Christ, this is difficult. Not the breathing. The shutting off of my thoughts. I’ve always been a deep thinker. Have never been able to shake off my guilt. Even when I’m not directly thinking about Betsy, there’s always a grey cloud circling my every moment.
I wonder what time it is. Without my phone I can’t tell, but it‘s got to be coming up to two o’clock. That’s when Elaine said she’d be back in to measure my bloods. Jesus… I may have only one hour left to live. And here I am, lying in an uncomfortable bed, doing my best to focus on six-second inhales and exhales. I blow out through my lips, making a rasping sound. The thought of what happens when you die flipping over in my head. I wonder what the fuck a God would say to me if I was to somehow find myself at the gates of Heaven this evening.
‘Why did you never have faith in me, Gordon Blake?’
‘Because you made it fucking impossible for anybody with half a brain to have faith in you, you long-bearded twat!’
I make myself laugh a little with that thought. The first time I’ve produced a moment of giddiness all morning. But the giddiness doesn’t last long; the thought of dying and ceasing to be begins to hit me hard. I’ve never really been afraid of death itself; I’ve only ever been afraid of dying without knowing what happened to Betsy. It looks very likely that my biggest fear may become a reality in just a few hours time. I let out the saddest sigh I’ve let out in years. I can hear the self-pity within it.
Six seconds in through the nose… six seconds out through the nose.
The ward door opens while I’m finishing my long exhale. I stiffen my lips, look over at Elaine strolling towards me. She stares at me sympathetically, unsure of what to say. We’ve been quite open with each other throughout the morning, but right now she knows she’s about to give me a quick test that will determine whether or not I’m guaranteed to die today. That’s hardly an easy topic to raise. So, instead of talking to me, she nods slowly, then clenches her lips tight.
‘So this is it?’ I say.
Elaine remains silent. She almost looks as if she’d cry if she spoke. I think that’s why she hasn’t said a word. It’s either that or the guilt she has felt for ratting me out to Douglas is eating at her. She holds up the blue tabs, presses them into my chest. Then she turns to her machine, presses at a couple of buttons and glances at me, her eyes blinking.
‘Very best of luck, Gordon,’ she says.
I reach out my hand, grab a strand of her hair and brush my fingers gently through it.
‘Thank you, Elaine.’
She breathes deeply, presses another button and then holds her eyes firmly shut. She must be willing the digits to blink to something in the 130s as much as I am. I bend forward to stare at the small screen when it beeps and as I do, Elaine opens her eyes.
Bollocks. 142.
Elaine holds her eyes closed again, then opens them and tilts her head to stare at me. I fall back onto the bedpost, hold my hand to my forehead and for some reason begin to breathe in for six seconds, then out for six seconds. By the time I’m finished one breath Elaine is at the foot of my bed, unhooking the clipboard from the rail.
‘One thirty-nine,’ she says, scribbling. I remove my hand from my forehead, then smile up at her.
She walks towards me without saying another word, removes the tabs from my chest and then folds them neatly before hooking them to the machine.
‘You are an angel sent from heaven,’ I say, aware that such a statement totally contradicts the thoughts I had been stewing around my head just minutes ago.
She doesn’t even look at me. She just swirls on her heels and heads for the door.
‘I’ll let Mr Douglas know he should begin to prep the theatre. We’ll be going down in an hour, Gordon. You just continue to relax.’