Chapter Six
December 2015
Lydia toyed with the chocolates hanging on the Christmas tree in their small but well-styled lounge room. Theo had strictly forbidden any eating of the chocolates until Christmas Eve, which Lydia thought was completely ridiculous. ‘We’ll get plenty of treats on the day itself, we won’t want the chocolates then. How about one a night?’ she’d tried to reason with him. He’d told her no and kissed her, grabbing her hand as she’d reached out for another. ‘And I’ve counted them,’ he’d told her. ‘So there’s no getting away with it.’
The sound of the post landing on the doormat brought Lydia out of her daze and the chocolate fell from her fingers, dangling on the branch once again. She scooped the envelopes and flyers up, dumped junk mail in the recycling, put the bills to one side and warmed at the sight of a postcard from Perth, Australia, where her sister, Imogen, was enjoying a gap year following university before she ‘joined the real world’ as Theo had laughingly told her. Lydia hadn’t emailed Imogen and she’d made her parents promise not to either. She’d be home in a few short months and Lydia didn’t want her younger sister cutting her trip short for this. Not when none of them had any idea what would happen.
Lydia scanned the carefree postcard news with a smile, and then using the beer glass magnet, fastened it to the fridge. Imogen and Theo had always got on really well. ‘The brother I never had’, her sister had described him as once. With a determined nod of the head Lydia patted the postcard. Theo could read it when he came home.
Visiting hours didn’t start until eleven o’clock in the morning, and ten days on from the accident Lydia was finding it increasingly difficult to get through the hours preceding the start time. She had freelancing to be getting on with but it wasn’t enough of a distraction and she didn’t have the workload to occupy her mind for long enough. Part of being a freelancer was touting for business. She needed to get herself out there and make things happen, pitch ideas in a timely manner, get commissions. She didn’t have a never-ending money tree and it wasn’t like her to ignore the financial side of things. Usually, she was the sensible one who talked about savings, money for a rainy day. Since the accident, her self-employed work routine had fallen apart and she knew it couldn’t go on like this forever, but the day she thought of pitching an article on traumatic brain injury had been the day she’d screamed at the computer and she hadn’t put it on since.
She was all over the place and she had to get herself back on track.
With an hour to go before she donned the bobble hat, gloves and Siberian-esque coat from the downstairs closet, Lydia finally booted up the PC. She’d tackle her emails first. Good, one was a payment advice for her last two articles, both bought by a women’s magazine for good money, but her eyes pretty quickly zoomed in on the one from an Ian Galway. She recognised the name immediately. He was the man to whom she’d applied for the journalist job. It was a fairly new start-up and mainly an online magazine with a view to becoming print, but the offices were based in the city centre and they wanted a journalist to join the team. The job advert had been pretty vague but Theo had insisted she apply, and it would be a steady income, something she knew she needed long-term.
Lydia picked up the phone and called the contact number, partly because she had Theo’s voice in her head – the only place it was for now – and he was telling her to go for it, to take a chance on something new.
‘Hello, is that Ian Galway?’
‘It is.’
‘This is Lydia Walters. I got your email about the journalist position.’
‘Lydia, yes, hello!’ He sounded young and enthusiastic. She supposed any start-up these days had to be led by someone with energy and perkiness at all hours of the day.
After they’d chatted about Lydia’s qualifications and experience, she addressed the only concern she had before she’d agree to come in for an interview. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me more about the job. The advert didn’t go into too much detail.’ That was putting it mildly. It was a short, vague piece, not a good selling point in her opinion and could even discourage applicants.
‘That was deliberate,’ he answered, full of confidence. ‘The job is for a journalist to research and write up on travel destinations and will involve some travel in the UK, and potentially farther afield as we grow as a company.’
‘Right,’ said Lydia, but then added, ‘If you don’t mind me saying, putting that in the advert might have attracted more applicants.’ Had she gone too far, criticising anything about this company when she was trying to make a good impression? Theo had always said she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. They’d laughed about it and he’d called her a Venus flytrap, exotic in appearance, luring you in and then taking you by surprise.
His laughter rumbled down the phone. ‘I wanted someone who was qualified, someone willing to work hard, and the last time I advertised I got a never ending stream of applicants who had neither the know-how or the drive I was actually looking for. They were in it for the free travel and I didn’t hire any of them. I need more, Lydia. Do you think you’re up for the task?’
Part of her was saying hell, yeah! The other part was thinking of Theo, lying there in the ICU with tubes and wires for this, that and the other, and doctors milling around in their uniforms with loafers or sensible lace-ups that had silent soles that puffed air as they followed the rabbit warren of corridors around the hospital.
‘Lydia? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry. Still here.’
‘Would you come in for an interview?’
There was Theo’s voice again, his hand ushering her out the door, his lips on hers as he breathed good luck.
‘Yes, of course. When would you like to see me?’
*
As it happened, the boss of the company – Ian as he insisted on being called rather than anything too formal – was at a conference for the next three days so it gave Lydia some breathing room with the interview not until nine o’clock on Friday morning. As she strolled through the city centre, past eager shoppers desperate for that last minute Christmas present, past the man selling the Big Issue who always smiled at her when she bought a copy and was impossible to ignore this morning, and on towards the bus stop where she’d catch the bus to the hospital, Lydia knew she had to give the opportunity a chance come Friday. No matter what was happening with Theo, she needed a permanent source of steady income. They had a mortgage to pay and who knew how long Theo would be in hospital, how long before he’d return to work.
She gulped. If he ever returned to work.
Lydia had wondered whether to mention Theo to Ian, the man who could potentially be her new boss. But she decided against it. She’d address the issue when and if she got offered the job because until then it was nothing but a moot point.
Following the accident Theo had been taken to the nearest hospital, a new facility about half an hour out of the city. When Lydia arrived, the first thing she did was make a cup of black tea to warm her up and to calm her for what lay ahead. It was funny how quickly you became used to something – a new place, new people – even though it might not be what you thought would ever happen. She’d greeted three nurses already on her way in to the visitors’ room – Tania, the senior sister, Selina and Milly, both charge nurses – already on a first name basis with people who rotated and cared for Theo over time. Tania was the girl who rarely smiled and had the most serious manner of all three but told you how it was, no dressing up the issue. Selina was a shy girl and you needed to prise information out of her and Milly was at the other end of the spectrum, serious but wrapped with an air of optimism.
But it wasn’t any of the nurses she was familiar with who Lydia saw next. It was the critical-care consultant who’d updated them intermittently with Theo’s progress and he’d ushered Anita into the interview room opposite. Lydia left her half-full cup of tea on the side by the machine and went to join them. When she knocked and opened the door, Anita looked glad of the company and the consultant nodded in recognition.
Lydia patted Anita’s hand after she sat down. Lydia, at Theo’s insistence, had never taken Anita’s air of disapproval personally. She’d even offered Anita a place to stay while her son was in hospital, but Anita had given them both an out when she’d said it would be better for her to stay in the bedroom provided for relatives here near the ICU, or in a bed and breakfast two minutes’ walk away from the hospital.
‘What’s happening?’ Lydia asked, her eyes darting between Anita and the consultant.
‘As I was saying to Anita,’ the consultant began, ‘it’s very hard to give updates or advice in these situations. You want an indication as to whether Theo is going to wake up and when, but it’s really impossible to say.’
Lydia braced herself for a more lengthy discourse and this time Anita reached out and clutched her hand. Lydia let her do it, an unspoken gesture that they were in this together.
‘Every brain is different,’ the consultant continued. He went on to explain the length of time patients may spend in a coma, signs they were coming out of it, and what the machines, wires and bleeping were doing for Theo as he lay there. Anita asked about outcomes: what happened when the patient came out of a coma? Would they be the same person? Would they remember what had happened? Would they ever walk, talk, sing, laugh, and do everything else again as they’d done before?
The consultant took the questions in his stride. He was probably used to all this, not like them. ‘Theo’s operation went well and we fixed the ruptured blood vessel in his brain. But the truth is, I could repeat statistics to you, I could give examples of best-case scenarios and worst-case scenarios, but Theo is his own person. His case is his case, we can’t reliably measure it against others.’
He took a deep breath, and then he hit them with it.
‘After a brain injury a person may never be the same again.’
Anita pulled a tissue from the pocket of her cardigan and blew her nose loudly, sniffed. Lydia couldn’t move, she couldn’t take in what this doctor was saying. Theo was alive, looked for all intents and purposes to be sleeping, how could he not ever be the man he was before?
The consultant’s voice softened again. ‘As time goes on we need to think about possible outcomes and what they would mean for Theo.’
Lydia found her voice. ‘What do you mean exactly?’
‘I know this is a very difficult question, for both of you.’ Lydia and Anita looked at him. ‘But I have to ask. Has Theo made a living will?’
Anita didn’t seem to have any idea what he was on about. As far as she was concerned it was yet another piece of jargon to be thrown at them.
The consultant went on. ‘Or has he appointed anyone to make decisions on his behalf? In the event he was ever in this kind of situation.’ His focus was more on Lydia, she noticed, perhaps because she was Theo’s generation, or maybe because he knew how Anita was about to react.
Lydia had a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, because a couple of years ago she and Theo had watched a documentary about an individual’s right to die. Disturbing in its content and a reminder of a journalistic article she’d once had to write about euthanasia, Lydia hadn’t wanted to watch it. She was the glass half-full type, the eternal optimist in their household. Theo was a realist and frequently said to her, as he had that night when she’d walked away to pour a large glass of wine in the kitchen, ‘Just because you’re not watching doesn’t mean it’s not happening.’ She’d gone back to the lounge room and curled up next to him on the sofa, handing him one of the two glasses of wine she was carrying.
‘It’s real life, these things happen,’ he’d said matter-of-factly.
‘I know, but I prefer not to watch it or think about it. I know it happens, but where you’ll switch the television off and forget about it in five minutes, I’ll most likely dream about these people and lay awake night after night thinking about what I’ve seen.’
Lydia endured the last fifteen minutes of the program, which featured a man who’d woken from a coma after years and years and had eventually gone home, where he was cared for by his parents. He was confined to a bed, had minimal speech and his every need was tended to by those who loved him. It broke Lydia’s heart to see the pictures of the man he’d been before and the man he was afterwards.
Lydia took possession of the remote control and flicked over to Escape to the Country. ‘Oh, Cornwall…this is more like it…what a gorgeous cottage.’
‘Lydia…’ Theo nudged her.
‘I’m not turning it over.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘But…’
He looked her in the eye and said, ‘Promise me, if anything like that ever happens to me, you’ll pull the plug.’
‘You sicko.’
‘I mean it. I’m not trying to be funny. I wouldn’t want to live like that, not ever. I wouldn’t want you, my family or anyone else having to look after me. It’s an existence, not a life.’
‘Theo, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Some people put it in their will. It’s called a living will.’
She raised a quizzical eyebrow.
He laughed. ‘So you really can switch off when you’re not interested in a program.’
‘Sure can.’
‘Well, if you’d listened at all to the presenter, a living will is a written statement of an individual’s wishes regarding medical treatment, in circumstances where they can’t give their opinion. In other words, in such a bad way they’d rather not be kept alive.’
She gulped the remains of her glass of wine, which had gone down way too quickly. ‘Do you have one?’
‘A living will? No.’
‘What about a normal will?’
‘Not yet. It’s one of those things I really need to do.’
‘We both should…I keep putting it off.’
He grinned. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘Hey, I’m organised, you know, and practical, but something about writing one gives me the heebie-jeebies.’
‘Real life, Lydia, real life.’ He took her glass and moments later returned with a refill and flopped down next to her again, an arm slung across the back of the sofa. ‘We’ll do it, together.’
It was one of those conversations that faded away with every sip of wine afterwards, each giggle, each feeling of normality and she hadn’t thought about the conversation since, preferring to focus on the approaching Christmas season, meet up with friends to talk about the possible closure of the local library and protests they’d been involved in, or share tips about cooking your first Christmas turkey and the best desserts for the big day.
But now, here she was in the hospital interview room and the subject had reared its ugly head again.
‘He hasn’t,’ Lydia told the consultant now, and went on to explain their recent conversation about perhaps making a living will. She wasn’t sure whether it was the right thing to do and didn’t look at Anita for fear she’d be condemned. But something told her she had to advocate for Theo. He couldn’t do it for himself after all.
‘I don’t see why we are talking about wills anyway.’ Anita stood and began pacing before Lydia could go into any more detail about what Theo had asked of her. ‘Theo’s alive. I want him to stay that way.’ She directed her question at the consultant. ‘Are you saying he’s not going to make it?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying at all, Mrs Morgan.’ He addressed her more formally, as though the difference might make her think rationally. ‘What we need to think about in these situations are the needs of the patient.’
‘He needs you to keep him alive!’ Anita’s voice reached a level too high for the confines of the small space and Lydia willed her to sit down so they could hear what the consultant had to say. Lydia often blinkered herself to situations, but she was practical too and liked to methodically go through the facts and information presented to her.
The consultant’s voice softened and he offered as many words of reassurance to Anita as he could. ‘In some cases, the patient has suffered such a devastating injury that it’s clear they won’t recover and so we discontinue care.’ He put a hand on Anita’s when she gasped. ‘In other cases, it’s the opposite end of the spectrum and it’s clear that the patient, with ongoing treatment, will have a good outcome.
‘For Theo,’ he went on, ‘he’s in between these two extremes. We really don’t know, at this stage, whether he can make a recovery or not. Any decisions we make are not nearly as clear as we would like them to be. So this is why we factor in all the information, including what Theo would want, what outcome would be acceptable for him in the long-term.’
Anita stood and faced the wall, her hands covering her mouth as though to stop her voice, her tears, her emotions. To stop the pain eating her up from the inside.
Lydia could see that Theo was in the best hands here, but call it too much experience interviewing reluctant subjects or too much time observing people and their behaviours, she was also able to read between the lines. ‘You’re asking what would Theo want in this situation?’ She put on her journalistic head, kept her calm, ignored her voice as it wavered, the tears that wanted to flow.
‘Yes.’ The consultant showed no emotion. ‘Right now we feel it’s too early to make any decisions, but as Theo’s family, you deserve to have all the facts and in turn, we need to understand more about Theo himself. You understand him the best, which is why we talk to you.’
When the consultant left them to ponder everything he’d said, Anita began pacing again. ‘How dare he? Who does he think he is?’ She was pointing to the closed door the consultant had already shut behind him on his way out. ‘He’s telling us to unplug Theo, my beautiful boy.’
And then the pacing stopped. Anita dropped to her knees as though she was about to pray, but head in her hands she sobbed her heart out and Lydia’s own heart almost broke in two, as Anita said Theo’s name over and over again.
When the door to the room opened, the man who came in looked as broken as his ex-wife. Theo’s dad, Graham, distraught and jet-lagged from the long flight all the way over from New Zealand, put his arms around Lydia and she wept. The feeling of security wrapped in his arms right now was the comfort she needed. Regardless of Theo’s history with his dad, Lydia had always liked Graham and got along with him.
She stayed and updated Graham on what was happening, and with only a few words to Anita, he went straight to see his son.
For the first time since the accident, Lydia had an almost physical urge to run. She wanted to get far, far away from the hospital, but she had no idea where to, because home was filled with reminders of Theo everywhere: clean socks balled in the laundry ready to be put away, his favourite mug hanging on the hook in the kitchen, the photographs of the both of them, a crumpled petrol receipt in her favourite lilac china bowl on the kitchen windowsill ready to take to work and claim for expenses, the scribbled chalk message on the blackboard in the kitchen that said ‘round two tonight?’ He must’ve written the message before he left for work that morning, after they’d made love in the lounge and it’d made her body tingle with longing when she’d seen it. She hadn’t rubbed it off since.
Lydia wanted to get away from the familiarity and reminders that could get at her whenever she let her guard down. It was like being trapped in a box, unable to get out, unable to run away from your thoughts and memories.
But she couldn’t. Theo needed her.
She came to her senses and made a cup of black coffee for Anita, persuaded the woman to get off the floor and sit in a chair and then handed it to her.
‘I’m sorry.’ Anita stared into the depths of the black liquid in the flimsy cup. ‘You don’t need me falling apart.’
‘No, I don’t.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Because we do need to discuss what the consultant said.’ Anita blew her nose. ‘We need to think about what Theo would want and Graham should be a part of the discussion too.’
Anita half laughed. ‘Graham will want to save his son.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
Anita shook her head. ‘Don’t listen to that doctor, Lydia. You heard it yourself. They can’t be certain about anything, they don’t know who will recover and who won’t.’
Lydia couldn’t get that documentary out of her head, or Theo’s voice as he’d turned serious and told her he’d want to die rather than live what he termed ‘a half-life’. It was one hell of a request and an opinion not everyone shared, but he’d been totally serious.
‘It’s ludicrous to even suggest giving up on Theo now.’ Anita carried on, adamant. ‘It’s been less than two weeks since the accident. I’ve heard of people waking up from comas decades afterwards. I saw it on a hospital program the other week, a fireman waking up and talking as though he’d only been asleep overnight, not for years. It happens. It can happen to my Theo.’
Lydia wished it were true, she really did. But as Theo was saying that night to her during the documentary, just because she chose not to listen or not to hear anything didn’t mean it wasn’t happening. And Anita was doing the same. She was blocking out any negativity, any words the consultant uttered that she didn’t want to hear and in the end it wouldn’t do any good. Lydia hated that she saw the reality of the situation when usually she saw the nice side, the side that was flowers and smiles and happiness, not the side that was dark and twisty.
‘Theo and I talked about living wills.’ She wasn’t sure how much of what she’d said to the consultant had sunk in with Anita.
‘So you said.’ Her eyes were swollen, red and puffy. ‘And you also said Theo doesn’t have one.’
So she was listening. ‘He doesn’t, but he did say to me if he was ever in a situation like this, he’d…’
‘Go on.’ She was incredulous. ‘I want you to say it.’ She didn’t spit exactly but the venom was there ready to strike. ‘Lydia, I want you to say it. Say the words. I dare you.’
Graham walked in on the stand-off between the pair. ‘What’s going on?’
Lydia looked at the floor, and then in as few words as possible explained what they were talking about.
‘You know she’s right, Anita.’ Graham, his face stricken with fear and sadness, deigned to address his ex-wife.
‘It’s too early for any decisions!’ Anita’s voice, laced with loathing and resentment at these two people daring to suggest what was best for her son, carried across the room and Graham shut the door to keep the discussion private.
‘We need to think about what he would want, Anita.’ Graham tried again. ‘You’re right, it is too early, but we need to prepare ourselves.’ The man looked devastated. Lydia could see it, but Anita didn’t seem to be able to see past her own pain.
‘How would you know what he would want?’ Anita spat. ‘You live on the other bloody side of the world. Family means nothing to you!’
Lydia looked from one parent to the other and then back again, willing them to leave their personal disagreements out of this.
Lydia knew how to stop them in their tracks. ‘Theo made me promise to switch the machines off if he was ever like this.’ Her words brought a stop to the bickering. A wail came from beside her. ‘Anita, I—’
‘No!’ She yelled through tears. ‘Don’t you say another word. You’ve said enough.’ She stood up, filled a paper cup with water from the dispenser in the corner of the room, downed it in one and dropped the empty vessel in the bin, and ignoring her husband, pulled open the door to the room. ‘I don’t want to hear another thing about it. I’m going to see my son.’