Page 31 of Prognosis Do Over

CHAPTER FIVE

A WEEK later, Lou got up from her desk for the last time. Everything was neat, everything was completed, ready for Lydia to take the helm on Monday. But for now she could hear her farewell party had started without her.

She stood gingerly, her thirty-four-week pregnant abdomen making the task difficult. She felt a Braxton Hicks contraction tighten her uterus and took a couple of deep breaths. She’d been getting them irregularly for a few weeks now, but today they were really quite painful, each set lasting for about ten minutes at a time.

‘Come on, Lou,’ said Lydia, bursting through her office door. ‘The party’s nearly over!’

Lou smiled, and then held her breath as another contraction squeezed through her. She forced herself to breathe out. ‘Just a second,’ she said, holding up her hand.

‘What?’ said a concerned Lydia. ‘What’s happening? Another Braxton Hicks?’

Lou nodded. She put her hand under her bump and supported it. ‘Bloody...things.’ She grimaced.

Lydia shut the door and walked over, closer to her friend. ‘Hey, look at the bright side. Your uterus isn’t sitting around idly, it’s practising. When you do go into labour it’ll be an old hand.’

‘It’d better be,’ Lou said through clenched teeth.

Lydia laughed. ‘We brought Terry in to the tearoom to help us celebrate,’ Lydia said conversationally, as she rubbed Lou’s back and waited with her for the Braxton Hicks to settle.

‘And you say I spoil him!’

‘It wouldn’t be a party without the ward mascot.’ Lydia grinned.

Lou started to breathe a little easier as the contractions waned. ‘I guess he is part of the furniture here now.’

‘You’ll miss him. You’ll miss us all.’

‘Of course.’ She smiled at her friend. Except Will. Not being around him was going to be a welcome change.

‘Come on,’ she said, forcing her legs to move now the contractions were just niggly remnants. ‘My party awaits.’

When Lou entered the tearoom everyone cheered. The room was decorated with balloons and streamers, and the posters of Lou that the Shave for a Cure people had plastered all around the hospital.

The table groaned with food. Terry, who had been perfectly happy devouring a lamington finger on Pete’s lap, saw her and held his arms out to her. Pete got up from his chair and Lou took his place, a very happy Terry in her arms.

Lou was humbled by the attendance. Nurses had come in on their day off. There were physios, social workers, doctors who had worked with Lou over the years, and even Harold, the Medical Director, had made it. And Evelyn Mason, the cleaner who’d been on Ward Two for longer than Lou had been around and was currently on long service leave, was there also.

There was laughter and chatting and a farewell cake. And lots of presents — baby clothes and toys, and nursery stuff, and some novelty things just for her.

And then, as a surprise, three clown doctors arrived. Lou had embraced the Humour Foundation, and had opened Ward Two’s doors to the clown doctors when they’d just been a crazy fledgling idea. And the kids had adored them. Now three days a week they visited, with their balloons and magic tricks and off-key singing, and made the kids laugh and the nurses’ job a little easier.

They performed a very adult hilarious routine, and twisted some very unconventional balloon figures to take home with her. They’d composed a special tribute to her, and one of them sang it while the other two provided the backing music — on a toy guitar and a plastic harmonica.

Lou was in fits of laughter by the end of it, and jumped when a spray of water sprinkled her face from a plastic lapel flower. ‘Thanks so much, you guys. That was terrific,’ she said, as she wiped away droplets of water with her hand.

‘I propose a toast.’

Even over the noise of all the laughter, and several different conversations happening at once, Will’s voice broke through. Lou’s heart slammed against her ribs as she looked up to see him standing in the doorway, and she thanked God this was her last day.

Knowing how he felt about her had made their situation even more hopeless, and it would be good to be away from the constant reminder of him and what they couldn’t have.

He looked all tall and broad and masculine, and she felt her body respond to him, despite the hopelessness. He smiled at her, and she swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled back.

‘Everyone got a glass?’ he asked. Will looked around the room at the assortment of Styrofoam cups, mugs and hospital-issue tumblers. Classy.

‘You got the French champagne?’ someone piped up, and everyone laughed.

‘French champagne in paper cups? Sacrilege!’ he scoffed. ‘Lemonade’s gonna have to do,’ he said, holding his cup out for Pete to pour him some.

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