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BLUE by Willa Hogarth
Someone has hammered nails into my head. My eyes open slowly and antiseptic smells hit my nostrils; a fuzzy blue shape moves in and out of focus.
‘Angie, you’re fine. The op went … OK,’ he says.
I struggle to pull the blue thing into focus – it is Jonathon’s wool sweater. My wobbly gaze goes up to his face, a tight smile and tiredness round his eyes.
‘That’s great,’ I say. I hear a noise like a drunk trying to speak.
A look of pain on his face and he puts his fingers on my lips. ‘Don’t talk yet. It’ll be OK.’
‘What …?’ The meaningless burbling is mine. I can’t speak properly. I stare at Jonathon, my left hand up-turned in a desperate question. My right arm is not moving properly either. A stab of fear as I point to it. I’m right handed.
‘It’s OK. The doctor thinks it’ll all probably come back.’ A forced smile and dullness in his voice. And the word ‘probably’ stands out. I keep repeating it in my mind. Probably. A spiky feeling in my chest. Shit. He couldn’t even cope with his mother’s stroke. Would he leave me?
I start to ask him how the kids are but hear the drunk again so I stop and close my eyes.
The alphabet card lies beside me on the bed; pointing at letters with my left hand is the clumsy way I communicate. I imagine the kids at school getting taunted – ‘Your mum can’t talk, your mum …’ Such cruel little critters. And then the pitying looks from teachers. I cringe.
My neurosurgeon and his entourage walk in and he strides over to my bed with the Charge Nurse, doctors and medical students scurrying after him. He’s the Big Nob in this ward, like an opera star with acolytes.
A clinical touch on my arm. ‘Unusual place for an aneurism but we’ve clamped it,’ he says. ‘And with your aphasia, we’ve got a choice – we can just wait and see or operate. But I can’t promise results. Could be better, could be worse. You never know. Talk to your husband.’ He sees the alphabet card and looks away. ‘Well, I’ll talk to your husband and you two decide.’ A nod and a professional smile.
I frown and shake my head as I watch the medical team march off. Got to get my speech back. My brain keeps churning out sad little scenes. I’m in a shopping mall, someone asks me, ‘Where’s Woolworth’s?’ I stand there like a moron and Jonathon has to answer. He gets embarrassed when I stuff up a punch line at a party.
Today Jonathon brings the kids in for the first time. A smell of jasmine as Janina and Noah whirlwind across the floor to my bedside; my husband’s face looks drawn and tired. The kids are bored - fidgeting and fighting and running around. I feel cut-off, can’t think of anything to say - not with an alphabet card anyway. Jonathon becomes jangled as he tries to keep the kids interested in being here.
‘Come and tell Mummy about …’ But they run outside; he follows and drags them back; does not look at me directly the whole time. Finally the kids ask questions to see who can be the first to guess a word before I finish pointing at the letters.
‘What’s that white thing on your head, Mummy?’
B-A-N- … ‘Bandage,’ yells Janina.
‘What did you eat for breakfast?’
E-G- … Janina gets it again. ‘Eggs!’
‘What did you watch on TV last night?’
‘Let me guess, Mummy.’ Noah’s face red with frustration.
‘I’m just faster, that’s all.’ A condescending look from Janina.
Tears flow down Noah’s screwed-up little face and a guilty expression appears on Janina’s.
‘Come on kids. Be nice,’ their father says.
My head feels like a pool of water being forced through a pipe too small for the flow. God, these bloody kids. I lift my arm and bring it back to slap Janina and she looks at me with shock in her eyes. But my hand just keeps moving. I can’t stop. It misses. I drop my arm quickly. Jonathon grabs the kids’ hands.
‘Come on, let’s go and have lunch.’ A distraught look on his face as he mouths, ‘Be back soon.’ I stare out through streaky windows and go over and over the scene that has just happened. My hand is shaking, my heart reaching up through my chest. I have never hit the kids in my life. Has my brain changed? Outside grey clouds morph into a zoo - an elephant, a lion, a kangaroo… Jonathon. Please don’t leave me. I wouldn’t blame him though. Imagine living with a mute. And watching me treat the kids like that.
He comes back later without the kids and is wearing his blue sweater. Just seeing it is comforting in this foreign land of bright lights and beeping machines and mashed potato and bedpans. I knitted it last holidays at the ski lodge when a snow storm kept us inside for days. The kids had a ball at Tiny Tots and we …well … we had great sex. I smile at him, but worry that my mouth is lopsided, that I look grotesque. He likes me looking good.
Out comes the alphabet card and I tell him I definitely want the operation but he frowns and shakes his head; says I should wait. I try to justify my desperation using the frigging alphabet card but it is so bloody slow I feel like a child. God. I’ve always been a good communicator. A computer, that’s what I need. I spell the word and he nods.
‘OK. Tomorrow.’
Funny how my other senses are already more alive. I can hear patients shuffling up the corridor from way down near the stairs; I can smell the meal trolleys as soon as the lift opens. And when Jonathon squeezes my hand I feel his uncertainty; the nurse, her concern; the kids, their resentment. With my laptop I communicate a bit quicker; at least I can use chat room abbreviations. I start a diary. I’ve got to get my brain working.
Tues 21st. The worst day of my life. The doctor doesn’t want to do the op. Bet he listened to Jonathon instead of me. I could hardly look at Jonathon today, felt so scared and angry. The speech therapist, Julia, came and tortured me for half an hour; my pathetic sounds hitting the walls of the ward; other patients avoiding my glances afterwards. ‘It’ll come back,’ she said. ‘Don’t give up.’
Today Jonathon rings and says Linda at work has asked if he will catch up with some clients. A pang of jealousy. She’s so striking and physical. What he will tell her about me? My mind goes wild … see fervent kissing, limbs entwined, huffing and puffing, the whole bit. I know I am ridiculous. Later he rings and says he is stuffed - the kids running him ragged, do I mind if…? Will drag himself in if … I shrug my shoulders and get the nurse to tell him not to bother. Hot tears behind my eyes.
Friday 24th. The best day of my life. I said a word! I said hello! Just at the end of my half an hour’s torment with Julia. Thank God. I‘ll surprise Jonathon tomorrow. Feels like I’ve won a gold medal at the Olympic Games.
Jonathon is late. My stomach is tense as I practise, ‘Hello,’ over and over again. After lunch I feel tired. Next minute I am recalling a dream: Jonathon and I on the edge of a cliff in the mountains, the kids playing behind us; I am scared the fence will break. I open my eyes and glance at rain beating against the window and running down in rivers.
‘Hi, love.’ Jonathon in his blue sweater, reading the paper, waiting. I smell wet wool.
‘Hello,’ I say, expecting him to say, ‘Wow, Angie, that’s great!’ and then lean over and give me a sweet warm kiss on the mouth. I will feel safe. But he looks away, then brings his eyes back with an effort and shakes his head with an embarrassed smile. I close my eyes. Can’t look at him.
A hand strokes my cheek. The soft springiness of moist wool against my skin. I remember his smile when he pulled the dark blue sweater over his head for the first time.
‘It’s OK, mate. We’ll make it,’ he says. I turn to see silky eyes. He takes my right hand and pulls it over the clinging wool up his arm to his chest. I feel his breath. A couple of drops of water fall onto my hand and shimmer in the intense hospital light.
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