GROWING PAINS

by
Tracy Patrick

She should have known from the beginning. The signs were all there. Jeremy in his red cap and combat shirt, explaining how he’d caught scarlet fever as a child, nearly died from epiglotitis as a teenager and now, only in his twenties, could possibly have serious kidney disease, maybe even be on dialysis for the rest of his life.

He proposed to her in the out-patients department, in a blue paper gown as he waited for a dye test, “I hate needles,” he’d said.

“Don’t worry,” Lindsay smoothed his brow. That was when he’d asked her, and she’d said yes.

Five years ago now. Since then no wedding had taken place. Something to be grateful for, she thought, watching him writhe on the couch. What it was this time - Botchilism, Crohn’s disease, yellow monkey fever?

“God I’m dying here,” he groaned.

She offered him a painkiller from the multitude of prescriptions that had accumulated like genies in their bottles in the bathroom cabinet. He glanced at it then rolled away. “I want juice,” he said.

“We’ve run out.”

“Christ’s sake,” shouted Jeremy, “I told you we needed juice. Am I just wasting my breath here or what? All these bloody pills do is turn me into a vegetable!”

Without getting up, he kicked over the small black coffee table, and hurled the medicine bottle at the TV.

Lindsay didn’t say anything. She began picking up the scattered mess.

The flat belonged to Jeremy’s mum and dad, bought for him while he was studying politics. Lindsay had moved in during the final year of her drama course, to care for him through the kidney illness. She rubbed his back and mopped his brow, missed nights out with friends, concerts, parties, plays, sleep and exams. She barely finished writing her name on her first re-sit paper before her head hit the desk, a thesis on sleep deprivation. After that she gave up.

All the hospital results had been negative. Jeremy’s kidneys were as healthy as the day he was born. But the pains continued worse than ever. He was forced to stay up playing computer games till three in the morning sometimes, because it was too sore for him to sleep. When he woke, he’d twist and contort on the sheets complaining. “I’m gonnae be sick, I’m definitely feeling sick,” then go and retch dryly down the toilet. “This country’s a fucking disgrace,” he’d say. “Look at the NHS. Me having to work and I can hardly even walk. Trying to force patients to go private, that’s what they want. The rich pay for their health and the working class like me have to suffer. Unreal.”

He gave up his new job in the bank. The doctor issued sick lines and made appointments for more tests. Jeremy was tested for everything from testicular cancer to TB. All negative.

There seemed to be an illness for every situation; decorating, shopping, plumbing the washing machine, so that gradually Lindsay began to do everything on her own.

She booked a weekend in the countryside. “For health and relaxation,” she’d said. Due to a sudden limp, Jeremy couldn’t accompany her on walks. He blamed her, she hadn’t bought him new shoes. When she decided to go out on her own anyway, his old kidney pains resumed, and Lindsay had returned to find Jeremy splayed on the carpet, a trickle of drool running from his mouth. She’d called a doctor who took a pulse, smiled wryly and prescribed a sedative, that Lindsay wished was for her.

She went into the kitchen and vigorously scrubbed at the carbonised residue sticking stubbornly to the bottom of a pot. She could hear him now, shouting at the TV. Question Time must be on. Frequently, he was able to recover enough to give her a speech on politics, though the red cap and combat shirt were relegated to the bottom of a drawer. Over the years, Lindsay had thought of Jeremy as less Che Guevara and more Rick from The Young Ones.

She started to make some pasta. The aroma wafted through the flat so that Jeremy shouted “I could maybe eat something,” then added, “just a little,” as a reminder he wasn’t quite back to full health. She dished the meal onto plates and carried it through. “What’s this?” he said, picking around with his fork as though there was danger of insect infestation.

“Pasta with pepper and onion sauce. It’ll do you good.”

“I don’t know if I’ll like this.” Jeremy preferred concrete artery cuisine, anything so long as it was dipped in layers of saturated fat. Very probably the cure to any pains he suffered lay in the food he ate, but the sheets from the dietician, to be filled in daily, lay untouched.

Lindsay glanced through an Argos catalogue.

“Are you listening to this guy,” said Jeremy, pointing his knife at her. “What education policy? These people are trying to destroy our communities!”

She sighed. “We could do some volunteer work then. Conservation maybe.”

Jeremy looked at her then stood up. “How can you sit there and read? This programme’s about politics, bastards in power making decisions on our behalf and you just don’t seem to care!”

You gotta be tough, thought Lindsay remembering a programme she’d seen about Commando Parenting. This kid is gonna wreck his toys, said the expert, throw himself to the floor, hell, you might even find him in a pool of his own vomit (with drool running from his mouth, she’d thought) but you have to be strong.

Lindsay looked up. “You know something Jeremy? You’re all talk. A middle class socialist who’s never helped anyone in his life. Never mind the community, you’ve never even bought your own pair of shoes. It’s always been me or your parents…”

His face greyed and before she’d finished, he lifted the plate and launched it straight behind her at the wall. She felt the rush of air on her forehead as it whizzed by.

Jeremy looked momentarily shocked. “This pasta makes me ill,” he said, then quickly developed a migraine.

Lindsay tidied up for the second time that night. She squeezed the bottle of painkillers tight in her palm.

One time she had deigned to mention the word – hypochondria. Lindsay, rarely ill, had been suffering a particularly nasty bout of Russian flu, forcing Jeremy to fend for himself.

A series of savage screams and yelps tore her from sleep.

He ran into the bedroom, panting loudly and staring in panic at his index finger, as though it had just poked him square in the eye of its own volition. He was coated in sweat, and with every breath he emitted a high-pitched whimper.

“There’s a (pant) hole (pant) in the (pant) oven (pant) glove!”

She looked and saw a blister, about the size of a drawing pin.

“The pain (pant) I’m going to (pant) pass out. Might get (pant) infected, possible (pant) amputation.”

“You’re such a hypochondriac,” said Lindsay.

The panting stopped.

Jeremy pointed his wounded finger at her. “Don’t you ever say that to me again. I’m in constant agony nearly twenty-four hours a day, and you, …I can’t believe it. I’ll never forgive you for this.” He stormed out to get a take-away.

For a while she had consoled herself with a season ticket to Ibrox. She went with a co-worker from the property company, who had six kids. Lindsay hated football but it was the only place where they could scream expletives till they burst without being charged for breach of the peace. Every word drowned in the sea of chants and testosterone, joining the swell of volume till it was carried away into the afternoon air far above. “Jeremy’s so full of shite, Jeremy’s so full of shite, Jeremy i-is so-o full of shite!” But even that eventually lost its appeal.

When the broken shards of dinner were buried in the bin, she offered Jeremy a glass of milk as a peace offering. He accepted. In the kitchen she shook a handful of tablets from the bottle. Co-drydamol it said. According to the doctor these were quite strong. She placed the tablets inside a folded sheet of paper and crushed them down with a spoon. Then deciding he should really make up for lost time, added another handful, stirred the powdery chalk into the liquid and carried it through. Jeremy drank the glass in two gulps.

About fifteen minutes later he asked for a biscuit then flopped sideways like a ragdoll on the settee.

Lindsay surveyed the room. The blue wallpaper was stained tomato red. Politicians motioned their hands and held fake smiles up to the TV screen. In her heart was something final, as though she were surveying her surroundings for the last time, from a distant point somewhere in the future.

The corners of Jeremy’s mouth twitched then stayed motionless, in a dreamless smile.

How long would it be before he woke up?

Lindsay had no idea how many pills she’d given him. Panic began to rock her insides. She just wanted to shut him up, to gain a few hours peace for herself. Maybe she should wait, see if his skin turned blue. It was hard to tell in this light. Then it could be too late. Fuck, she thought, oh fuck oh fuck.

Lindsay stood up, gave herself a few hard slaps and ruffled her hair.

She hadn’t practised drama since her aborted college course, but the techniques returned to her with ease. By the time the ambulance crew arrived, she had fallen into her role, her face tear-stained and red, “I can’t cope anymore,” she choked, sitting on the couch beside Jeremy. “This isn’t the first time he’s tried.” She leaned over to stroke his hair, her pitch rising as she spoke. “He won’t let me help him. He accuses me of things - having an affair, crazy stuff like trying to control his thoughts. I can’t get through to him anymore.” She broke off, letting the tears flow.

“He could be out for a while, best get him to hospital straight away.” The female paramedic smiled soothingly. “You did the right thing.”

Lindsay waited in a separate room while they shone lights into Jeremy’s eyes, administered injections and hooked him up to a drip. She drummed her fingers on the plastic chair. She’d have to stick to her story. How many years was it for attempted murder?

A doctor told her Jeremy’s condition was stabilised. “It might be better if you spoke to him,” he said. “Rather than us.”

Lindsay fought the urge to run.

With Jeremy’s hand in hers, she sat sniffing at his bedside.

He opened one bleary eye. A nurse was within earshot, tending another Patient.

“Oh Jeremy,” Lindsay gushed, “thank God you’re alright. I’m so sorry. I had to phone them darling, you can’t go on like this.”

“Wh, wh, where am I?”

“You passed out. I found an empty pill bottle and put two and two together.”

Jeremy nodded slowly. Then his eyebrows creased. “But, I didn’t take any pills.”

A nurse beckoned to Lindsay. “Could we have a word please?”

Lindsay moved cautiously towards her, and was led to some seats arranged beyond the door of ward. “Please sit down, the doctor will be right with you.”

Lindsay licked a bead of sweat from her top lip, then bit hard on her bottom one. How could they possibly know?

The doctor put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He spoke in grave tones.

“Now I don’t want to alarm you but Jeremy might need some psychiatric care.”

She shuddered with relief.

“We’ll keep him in overnight, and tomorrow a doctor will be round to assess his condition. Any information you can give will be most helpful, and if you could fill Jeremy in and persuade him to co-operate, it’s for the best.”

“Care?” Lindsay cascaded fresh tears. What you mean - section him?”

“No, not at this stage, but if he becomes a danger to himself, or others.”

The doctor didn’t finish his sentence.

“Yes, of course,” Lindsay nodded, dabbing her swollen eyes with a tissue.

The doctor retreated and a nurse appeared, taking notes in a folder as Lindsay spoke.

“He’s like this all the time,” said Lindsay, “abnormally quiet for days then suddenly he snaps. He accuses me of affairs, refers to me as one of ‘them’, whoever ‘they’ are and claims he can’t trust me, that I’m transmitting misinformation, stuff like that.” She reiterated symptoms she’d read about and seen on TV programmes. “Other times he seems to be convinced he’s dying. He’s always going for tests but the doctors find nothing wrong.”

The nurse smiled sympathetically.

Approaching Jeremy’s bed in the ward, Lindsay felt her heart pounding in her throat. “Please stay calm Jeremy,” she said. “These good doctors have arranged some help for you tomorrow. A psychiatrist will be coming. All you have to do is answer his questions, then you can go.”

“Why are you doing this, Lindsay?” Jeremy barely moved his lips, spitting the words sideways like poison. “I don’t know how I passed out but you better tell them, I’m not suicidal. You’re making it up. I’ll never forgive you for this, Lindsay. Never. Tell them! You fucking evil cow.”

“All I did was phone an ambulance.” She tried to look pleading. “Perhaps you can’t remember taking the pills.”

“Can’t remember? Can’t remember!” he shouted. “What do you think I’m fucking crazy?” he was starting to scream, “YOU did this, didn’t you? YOU DID IT. I don’t know why but it was you.”

Lindsay caught the eye of a nurse and burst into tears. Shaking her head she sprang from the chair and ran out the ward. The nurse followed her.

“I can’t take it,” said Lindsay, burying her head in her hands.

Behind them, through the glass panels, they could see Jeremy stood on his bed, one hand gripping the metal stand of the drip feed, the other pointing at both staff and patients.

“I’m telling you, I’m the victim of a fucking conspiracy here and I don’t know why but my bitch wife is at the helm. Why don’t you believe me? I’ll have you all locked up for this. Is this what you call the NHS?”

Jeremy’s breathing became rapid. His knees folded and he fell to the mattress clutching his stomach, and heaving emptily over the side of the bed. “Painkillers,” he gasped to a passing nurse. A long string of drool searched its way from his bottom lip to the floor. “Need painkillers.”

“Now now, Jeremy,” said an orderly, “I think you’ve had enough today. When you’ve calmed down we can all talk.”

The nurse put her hand to Lindsay’s. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him. Why don’t you go home and get some rest. ”

Lindsay nodded weakly and turned away.

As she moved along the green linoleum floor of the corridor, past the smells of disinfectant and the metal rattle of medicine cabinets, she heard Jeremy’s distant squeal. “You’re not putting that bloody thing in me!”

Lindsay kept on walking, she felt as though she’d never stop. People with yellow faces, thin paper- grey skin, and hollow mouths were whisked past on trollies. Sad relatives held bouquets of flowers, white-coated doctors hurriedly criss-crossed the long stretch of hallways.

It was all Lindsay could do to stifle the smile on her face.

© Tracy Patrick
Reproduced with permission

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