11
I was spending most of my days and nights at the hospital, and today Lucy arrived around midday and insisted that I get some space between me and the chair beside Rosie’s bed, for my own mental and physical health.
Yesterday, the medical team had removed Rosie’s ventilator and were confident that the antibiotics were working well in treating the pneumonia.
So all I could do now was wait.
The poor thing was still very weak and barely alert most of the time (though a dinosaur balloon the Coopers of all people had sent had raised a smile), but according to Dr. Ryan, she finally seemed to be heading out of the danger zone.
Which was the only reason I was even considering Lucy’s suggestion.
She had assured me that she wouldn’t leave Rosie’s side until I returned, and while I initially refused, I realized after a quick look in a mirror that I really did need to take myself in hand, enough to pop back to Knockroe to collect a few things from the house and wash my hair at least.
“I left you some bath oil—that lovely new Jo Malone scent. Go and unwind for a bit, have a snooze, eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s or whatever, just get out of here for the day, OK?” she had urged.
And, despite myself, I knew she was right, which was why, having kissed my little girl goodbye, I found myself pulling into my driveway for the first time in what felt like days, weeks... I wasn’t even sure of the timeline anymore.
I did know that it was about a week and a half since Rosie had been put on the ventilator, and all the while I was at the hospital, Lucy had been running my house as well as her own. I told her just now before I departed that I really appreciated her; she was everything I needed in a wife. That made us both laugh, and for that brief moment it felt good to just feel something akin to normal.
Now, after dragging my exhausted body into the house, I felt myself exhale just the tiniest bit when I stepped into the kitchen. Everything looked so calm and...normal. This week’s mail had been brought in, there were some fresh flowers in a vase on the counter. Anyone walking into this house would have no indication of the chaos the occupants had been living through over the last two weeks.
Though, to be fair, even when my life wasn’t falling to pieces, my kitchen never looked like this.
“Bless you, Lucy,” I whispered, so as not to break the near-perfect peaceful silence that enveloped me.
I dropped a bag full of dirty clothes near the washing machine and proceeded to the sink to put a kettle on for a pot of tea. I pulled out a tin of loose mint tea that I reserved for moments when I needed to truly unwind and spooned three teaspoons into the pot. As I waited for the water to boil, I headed upstairs to the bathroom and drew the warm bath that Lucy had encouraged me to take, pouring in a generous amount of that delicious oil.
I rubbed my shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension out of my body, and nodded to myself. Yes, I needed this.
A moment later, the kettle sounded and I returned to the kitchen, poured the boiling-hot water into the teapot and, allowing it time to steep, turned my attention to the kitchen island.
Pulling the piles of mail closer, I saw that Lucy had handily created two stacks—one that obviously comprised of bills and official documentation and another made up of cards and various other bits and pieces. I debated for a moment as to which pile I should tackle. Though the cards would surely be heartening, the realist in me made me opt for the bills. I was never one to shy away from the bad stuff—might as well tackle it head-on. That was what Greg used to say about facing unpleasant situations.
Grimacing to myself, I noted the irony. My whole life these days was about tackling things head-on.
I found the pile to be exactly what I expected. A load of payment demands: electricity, gas, TV—a couple overdue because I hadn’t spent any time focusing on the day-to-day administrative affairs of my life lately. Quickly becoming tired of seeing the amounts grow into a bigger and bigger total sum, I tried to keep my thoughts from overwhelming me as I also started to panic over the fact that it had been almost three weeks since I’d done a day’s work. Which reminded me—I needed to return that call from my supervisor at Glencree, no doubt wanting to discuss my situation and when I might be able to return to my duties at the clinic.
It scared me that I wasn’t currently in a position to answer that question and wasn’t sure when I would be.
But no, now wasn’t the time to think about it, I argued with myself. Lucy was right, today was for de-stressing, not adding another burden to my already teetering worry pile.
In the other group of letters, there were indeed lots of Get Well Soon cards for Rosie, as well as notes of support for me from other Applewood parents, and I was reminded again of how wonderfully supportive this community was in times of need, and how quick everyone in Knockroe had been to rally around me both now and after Greg’s death, irrespective of how well or little they knew me personally.
Christine Campbell was a case in point, who, along with Lucy, was constantly and very kindly asking if she could help or if I needed anything while Rosie remained in Dublin. Although I still hadn’t quite forgiven her for that suggestion at the hospital before that the Coopers might be directly to blame for our current misfortune, I was touched by her generosity.
At the time, I’d very quickly put an end to that conversation. “There wasn’t an accident, or a faulty product or something—there isn’t anyone to blame,” I’d argued, horrified by the suggestion. “This is just about kids getting sick.”
However, Christine’s reply echoed in my head occasionally. “No, it’s about personal responsibility, or lack thereof,” she had insisted. “Madeleine sent her sick child to school knowing Clara wasn’t vaccinated against any serious illnesses. And, unlike you, she and Tom chose that situation. Really, you should talk to my cousin...”
But I honestly couldn’t wrap my head around Christine’s insistence. And I had told her, the nurse and especially Lucy—since she was friends with both me and the Coopers—exactly that.
It was uncomfortable to even think about. In fact, it felt almost...tacky. How could I even think about casting blame on anyone for this, let alone drag another family to court? One from that very same community that had so readily taken me and Rosie to their hearts. It wasn’t even worth thinking about, and once again I urged my brain to just...stop.
Relaxation, relaxation...
Grabbing my phone (just in case there was any change at the hospital) and my teacup, I headed for the stairs, determined once and for all to switch my mind off and submerge myself in a tub full of sweet-scented bubbles.
I sighed with pleasure as I lowered myself into the warm tub and felt my muscles immediately unwind as I submerged my body completely.
What I wouldn’t give at that moment for Greg to be sharing the water with me, rubbing out the knots that had over the last two years made themselves a permanent home along my shoulder blades. Though, in all honesty, I didn’t even need a massage as bad as I did a simple hug from someone who wasn’t a friend or a child. I could barely remember what it felt like to be touched by a man in a physical way.
“The things you take for granted...” I whispered, recalling all of the times that I had been too busy for a quick hug goodbye from Greg in the morning, or all those other moments at the end of a busy day I had fallen asleep without kissing him.
Swallowing hard, I knew from experience that I needed a distraction in order to avoid walking down the road of self-pity. So, sitting up a bit, I reached across to the lid of the toilet, where I had laid my phone on top of a towel. Social media always provided a welcome respite from obsessive thinking. There was something inherently relaxing about mindlessly scrolling through other people’s lives.
Reading through my own page alerts and checking my messages, I found many, many notes of encouragement and brief “thinking of you” posts that had come in over the last while from old friends in Dublin and Cork, as well as other Knockroe locals I didn’t even know. I’d called my mother and pleaded with her not to worry about traveling all the way up here; I told her that I had everything under control.
In truth I didn’t need the hassle.
Several people had tagged me in images that contained inspirational and uplifting quotes, and I went through and acknowledged what they’d posted so they’d know I’d seen them. Others had tagged me in a short local online news piece that had mentioned a recent but minimal (“minimal,” ha!) measles outbreak in the area, quoting the usual facts and figures. I ignored those; I didn’t need the internet to tell me about measles.
As I continued to read through the newsfeed detailing other people’s day-to-day activities and happy photographs, I allowed myself to find a comfortable lull where I simply glimpsed at other people’s comings and goings. There was something inherently hypnotic about scrolling through multiple unrelated stories of everyday life and, for the first time in what felt like an age, I started to feel myself relax at last.
Until I saw it.
Clara Cooper’s beaming (rash-free) face staring back at me as she apparently returned to school this morning for the first time in almost three weeks. Though Madeleine Cooper and I weren’t connected socially, Lucy’s activity had popped up on the sidebar and I’d spotted that she’d liked something on Madeleine’s profile.
Rosie’s classmate looked so vibrant, so well and so utterly opposite to my frail little girl, still so weak and frighteningly lifeless in her hospital bed, surrounded by seemingly endless bleeping machines.
And, before I could help myself, I threw my phone across the floor and burst into tears.