Lover in Law (18 page)

I’d thought I’d peed in my pants at first. That this was my comeuppance for not doing pelvic floor exercises, like Kayla does, because she tends to leak a little when she laughs.  I’d squeezed into a tightly packed, sticky and airless carriage, late as predicted, thanks to my Mum. I was standing, clutching onto a ceiling strap, fighting for balance, jostling against an assortment of sticky, sweaty commuters, when the first gush came, a whole load of liquid running down between my legs. To top all the embarrassment, I’d worn a skirt. I’d looked around to see if anyone else had noticed before casting my eyes down, reluctantly, to check the damage, to see if I’d left a puddle on the floor. It was then that the alarm bells had started to ring. The liquid wasn’t colourless. It was staining my skin a watery pink, trickling down my legs towards my feet, like melting wax down a candlestick. That would have been just about bearable, but as I inched towards the sliding doors to get the hell out of there, another, bigger volume of fluid had escaped, in a projectile gush. This time it wasn’t so much pink as red, dark brown and rusty, and it was thicker than water. Panic had turned into fear that I was haemorrhaging internally, uncontrollably and the fear was gripping me in a neck hold more suffocating than Scott Richardson’s, turning my breaths into short, shallow gasps for oxygen. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. 

I don’t know how I got out of there, got spewed up from the belly of the station, but I did. Like an automaton, with clammy hands clutching huge clumps of hair at a time, pulling it back from my perspiring face, I somehow got swept along the platform, through the tunnel, up the escalator, with the swarm of people buzzing towards the exit. That’s when I’d aimed for the cab rank, rudely gate-crashing the waiting line.

“I’m sorry, I’m bleeding really badly,” I apologise to the driver as my hand smears a slimy red print onto his plush, leather banquette.  He takes off with an emergency wheel spin.

“Don’t worry love,” he reassures me. “We’ll be there in a jiffy.”

***

“Name?” barks an indifferent triage nurse.

“Alison Kirk.”

 “Age?”

“Thirty.” I reach for my mobile. “Do you mind if I make a call?”

Now that I’ve arrived at University College Hospital’s Accident & Emergency, which the taxi driver promised was one of the best in the country, I feel a bit calmer. If I’m dying, if something’s really wrong, at least I’m in the right place. Even so, I’ve never much cared for hospitals and it’s an even lonelier place, so I’m finding out, when you’re the patient. I need to call Adam. I need, I want him here with me.

“You can’t use that in here,” the nurse points to my phone. “You can use mine when I’ve finished taking your details. Can you lift up your sleeve please? I need to take your blood pressure.”

She wraps a tourniquet round my right arm and before she starts pumping she pops a disposable thermometer in my mouth.         

“When did the bleeding start?”

“Half an hour ago,” I answer, trying not to dislodge the thermometer.

“Are you still bleeding now?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No.”

Bizarre considering the lower half of me looks like it’s been involved in a serious punch-up.

“Well,” she says, unwrapping the tourniquet. “I’m pleased to say your blood pressure’s normal and,” she takes out the thermometer, “so is your temperature.”

“Why do you think I’m bleeding like this then?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to be examined by a Doctor. Look,” she says, reaching for a little plastic pot and some towels. “They’ll probably want a urine sample so why don’t you go to the toilet, fill this and clean yourself up whilst you’re at it. And then, when you’ve finished, you can use my phone.”

***

It’s a lady Doctor, about my age, who comes to examine me an hour later, after I’ve been found a bed. I feel fine now, I really do, which is why this all seems a little unnecessary, all this fuss and commotion and curtain swishing.  I’d hoped Adam would be here for this bit. He’d said he’d come straight away. He’d sounded so worried, so concerned and so loving that I’d started crying, shock catching up with me. All I could think was that in an emergency, in a crisis, Adam’s the one I want by my side. 

“When was your last period?” she asks, pressing down on my abdomen.

“Just over a couple of weeks ago, I think.”

“And the one before that?”

“I’m regular as clockwork, every four weeks.”

“I’m afraid,” she says, taking some latex gloves off the trolley and putting them on, “that I’m going to have to examine you internally, so I can get a better look at what’s going on.”

My body tenses. I hate the alien, unyielding touch of cold metal clamping open inside me.

“Ouch,” I squeal.

“Relax,” she says. “Almost there.”

She’s holding, hilariously, a huge torch at the base of my vagina. If I weren’t so uncomfortable, if this wasn’t me actually lying here, legs wide open, I’m sure I should laugh at the comedy of it all.

“Nope,” she says, taking out the clamp. “I can’t see where the bleeding’s coming from. I thought it might be a burst blood vessel in your vagina, but I can’t see anything there. Did you do a urine sample?”

“Yes, I gave it to the nurse at triage, when I came in.”

“Alright. Let me go check up on that.”

Adam almost collides with her as she walks off, in a hurry.

“Adam.”

My voice points him in the right direction.

“Ali, baby,” he rushes over to my bed, bending over to kiss me and stroke back my hair. “Sorry it took me so long to get here. How you doing?”

“I’m ok.”

It’s so good to see him.

“What do they think is wrong?” he asks.

“I don’t know. They can’t find anything.”

The Doctor comes back, introduces herself to Adam and holds up a small pot of urine. I’m not sure if it’s mine.  

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to transfer you to a different ward. We really need to do an abdominal scan, but our scanner’s just packed up, so I’ve arranged for a porter to come and get you.”

“Ok,” I say, as a man with a wheelchair pulls up. “This isn’t for me, is it?” I point to the chair, alarmed.

“Your carriage awaits,” she laughs.

“It’s really not necessary,” I say. “I’m fine. I’m sure I could walk there.”

“It’s a long way. I really think it will be better,” she insists.

“Don’t worry,” says Adam, taking my hand.

“Good luck,” says the Doctor. “I’ll try to come check on you later. Oh, and could you hand this to the nurse when you get there?”

She passes the urine sample over and says goodbye.  As Adam helps me into the chair and the porter wheels me off down a long, faceless corridor I get a whiff of boiled potatoes and cabbage and my stomach turns. I pray I don’t have to stay here.

“Do you think I’m alright?” I ask Adam.

My voice is weak, thin and scared as I feel another, disconcerting spurt of warm blood ooze into the heavy-duty sanitary towel the nurse had given me.

Chapter 21

Adam walks by my side as I’m wheeled along in the chair. “Where are we going?” I ask the porter.

“Actually, we’re just arrived,” he says, as we approach some glass double doors. He presses on a security button that buzzes a couple of seconds later, to let us in.

It’s a miracle, I think, as he removes the small plastic pot from my iron grip and hands it to the nurse behind the desk together with some notes, that my urine sample’s still intact. I’d been squeezing it so hard, without realising, that the ridged lid and even the pot itself has left deep indention marks creased in my palms.

“We’ve been expecting you,” the nurse smiles.

We follow her into a small room with six or so beds. Only one of them is occupied, by a lady propped up in a semi-reclined position by a mountain of pillows. Her fat belly is strapped with belts and monitors. She’s hard to ignore, the sheer size of her, as she winces before letting out a demure, controlled, back of the throat moan. The nurse pulls the curtain round her cubicle, to give her some privacy.

“Right,” she says, once she’s settled me in. “We just need to run some tests on your urine sample and the Registrar will come by in a minute with the scanner.”

We politely say thank you and settle in for yet another wait. That’s the thing with hospitals. Unless you get lucky and hit the right Doctor straight away, you’re passed from pillar to post, like a parcel with address unknown until they crack the code. This place is worse than A & E. A dampened, discordant opera of pained wails, ranging from baritone to high-pitch soprano, is floating through the impervious walls, pricking my skin with fear. If the nurses weren’t all wearing genuine smiles, where we are could be mistaken for a torture chamber.

“Jesus,” I say to Adam. “This place is hideous.”

He strokes my arm. “How are you feeling?”

“I was feeling much better till they brought me here. What do you th-”

“Hi there,” says a nice looking woman with a blonde ponytail. “Sorry about the wait. We’re up to our eyes in it at the moment.”

The name badge pinned onto her white overcoat says Dr. Sally Watson. Once again, this doctor looks about my age. It’s hypocritical, I know, considering I too am a professional with a great deal of responsibility. Despite her confidence, this woman looks far too young to be making judgment calls on what’s wrong with me. I want someone old and wise, with a little salt and pepper round their temples.       

“May I?” she asks, moving her hands toward my lower abdomen. I nod. “Any pain?” She presses down not so gently, kneading dents in my stomach. I shake my head. “Right, well, we’ve run some tests on your urine and I’ve got some idea what’s going on, but I need to scan you, to be sure. Is that ok?”

I nod again. For once, words, questions are escaping me. I fear the worst, because doctors normally elaborate if nothing serious is up. 

“Sorry, this might be cold.” The gel Dr. Sally Watson liberally squeezes over my tummy is so icy it makes me gasp with surprise. With her right hand she picks up the probe, which resembles a giant white plastic penis. With her left hand she takes one of mine, gripping it tight. I find this sweetly comforting and am about to say so when she turns the monitor away from me, so I can’t see. This I find terrifying. She starts moving the probe around, tracing lines back and forth along my stomach until she finds a particular spot that interests. Here she lingers, drawing tiny circles, before releasing her hand from mine, turning the monitor back into my line of vision.

“Well, my suspicions have been confirmed. Can you see this?” She points to a large black mass on the screen. I’m no expert, but I get the drift.

“Oh my God Adam,” I clap one hand over my mouth and with my other hand grab his. “I have a tumour.”

“I don’t think so,” the doctor smiles.

“Well what is it?” I stare at the monitor.

“Well, this is the head and this is the stomach, and this,” she moves the probe down, “is a foot I think. Oh, and that,” she laughs as the picture jumps, “is a somersault.”

I’m confused. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re saying. Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Well, not exactly. Unless you call being pregnant an illness?”

***

“I’m sorry,” I choke. “What did you say?”

“I think congratulations are in order,” says the doctor. “From the looks of things I’d say you were coming up to three months now. And he or she looks like they’re very happy in there.”

“That’s impossible,” I object. “You’re confusing me with the woman over there,” I point to the now curtained off cubicle opposite. “I can’t get pregnant. We’ve been trying for ages. Tell her Adam.”

Adam’s not listening. His eyes are glued to the monitor, transfixed, watching this little blob bounce up and down. He’s mistaking the scanner for a television.

“And I had a period just over two weeks ago, and one before that and one before that. So it’s impossible. I can’t be pregnant.”

“Some women have periods the whole way through their pregnancy. Did you have pain with them, were they maybe a little lighter than normal?”

“I don’t know,” I say, flummoxed. This doctor’s got an answer for everything. “And what about all the bleeding today? You’re not supposed to bleed when you’re pregnant. I must have lost a gallon of blood. That can’t be normal.”

“It’s not normal, but it’s not uncommon either. Plenty of women bleed at some stage during their pregnancy. I’ve had a good look. I can’t see where the bleeding’s coming from, but the good news is it’s not coming from the placenta, so it’s got nothing to do with the baby. The baby is fine. Look,” she points at the screen. “It’s waving. Can you see?”

I look and I see this tiny little hand with five little perfect fingers move a little and I burst into tears.

“Adam, tell this woman to stop making all this stuff up. It’s not fair.” I look at him, pleading and see that his eyes too are moist to the point of brimming.