Page 8 of Take a Moment

She approaches the end of my bed and takes a quick look at my chart.

‘You’ve been assigned to Dr Harlow. She’ll be doing her rounds late morning, so a few hours yet. Probably best you settle back and relax. Are you still feeling sick?’ She surveys my untouched breakfast tray.

‘Oh… a little.’ I shrug. ‘But not as bad as yesterday. At least my juice has stayed down this time.’ I tap my glass of orange juice.

‘That is a good sign.’ The nurse smiles at me encouragingly, then walks away.

For a few moments, I just lie quietly, trying to persuade my body to surrender to the rest I keep being told I need. It doesn’t work. As someone not used to doing nothing, I’m soon looking for something to occupy me. Reaching over, I pull my phone and iPad out of my bedside locker. It’s early, but Dom will be up and getting ready for work by now. I tap out a WhatsApp message:

Morning lover. Hope you got more sleep than I did. Been told the doctor will see me late morning. Fed up and bored. xx

While waiting for Dom to reply, I open the BBC News app and scroll through the top stories. I’m halfway through reading about the latest political drama at Westminster when a WhatsApp badge notification appears at the top of my screen, indicating that Dom has replied. I immediately click into it:

Morning kitten. Sorry you didn’t sleep well. I didn’t either without you beside me. Want me there for support when the consultant comes round? My boss will be cool with that. Dx

I smile at Dom’s message. That’s exactly why I’m marrying him. He’s my rock. Always there when I need him, whether I know it or not. The latter is certainly the more common occurrence and sometimes a source of contention due to my independent streak – I prefer to believe I only need myself to get by. But in this case, probably all I need is a set of discharge papers and a lift home. I’m sure if I was dying, they’d have mentioned this. It’s probably just a smudge on the scan that’s made it hard to read or something. I’ve had inconclusive smear tests, which have been fine when they redid them. Reassuring Dom that I’m fine, I wish him a good day at work and tell him I’ll keep him posted on when I’m getting out.

I switch back to the news, but I’m restless and it’s not long before I cast my phone aside in search of something more practically focused. Ignoring the persistent pounding in my head, I power up my iPad and spend some time browsing different sites for wedding shoes. It’s unlikely Sasha and I will manage our planned shopping expedition this weekend, so some early research will help save time when we do eventually go out together. I may be restless but I’m not feeling that sharp. I manage to create a shortlist of shoes for both of us: mine focused around beautiful high-heeled, lace-detailed peep toes, while ‘bit of bling’ strappy silver sandals make up the top choices for Sasha.

While pondering what else on my wedding to-do list I could use this unexpected opportunity to address, I realise I’m actually quite beat. My head injury has clearly knocked me off par, perhaps helped along by the cold I’m developing – though I note that no respiratory symptoms have appeared. Deciding that maybe it’s best to do as the nurse suggested and try to rest for a bit, I lie back and close my eyes.

It feels like ten minutes later when I wake with a start, groggy, a path of drool tracking its way down the side of my chin. I quickly grab a tissue from my bedside cabinet and wipe it away.

‘How do you feel now?’

I look up and see the nurse I spoke to earlier standing at the end of my bed. ‘OK, thanks. Think I manged to sleep for a few minutes.’

‘You’ve been out for three hours.’ The nurse points at the clock above the door on the ward. ‘Will have done you good. I was about to wake you. Dr Harlow has started her rounds.’

‘Oh, right.’ I perk up slightly, hoping that means I’ll be home by late afternoon.

‘Expect she’ll be with you soon…’ The nurse turns away distractedly. ‘Oh, Elizabeth, love, you need to keep your nightgownon.’

She makes a beeline for an elderly patient who is heading for the ward’s main corridor starkers. I watch this scene unfold in front of me, feeling a tinge of sadness that poor Elizabeth is so unwell, she no longer possesses the shackling inhibitions that keep so many of us in check. But I also can’t help chuckling a little as the nurse wrestles Elizabeth back to her bed and quickly pulls the curtain round just as an elderly male patient starts to wolf-whistle from the corridor. The cruel reality of ageing. Having a sense of humour must be an essential quality for the staff on this ward.

To pass the time until Dr Harlow visits my bedside, I switch my iPad back on. My finger is hovering over the Safari icon, ready to resume my wedding-related research, when I spot the app for my work emails. Unable to resist, I bring up my inbox and scroll through the unopened messages from the afternoon before. Most of them are business as usual, but there’s also a thread titled ‘Re: Contingency for Finance Systems Project’. Curious, I tap on the latest reply and scroll to the bottom so I can read from the beginning. As I take in the words before me, I feel a sense of anger rising.

‘No.NO.Definitely not,’ I say out loud. ‘Laura, what are you doing?’

They’re putting plans in place for a temporary project lead to take over in my absence. WhatisLaura doing? She has no idea how long I’m going to be off. Neither do I yet. But one thing’s clear. It will be for as little time as possible. Hell, I’ll be back next week if I get the all clear by then. It’s only Tuesday. There’s plenty of recovery time between now and Monday.

I send an email to Laura to this effect and impatiently tap the side of my iPad with my fingers while I wait for her reply. It arrives quickly and her message is clear. I’m off sick, which means I’ve to stay away from my work emails or anything work-related. Full stop. It’s a message that’s padded out with supportive words, concern and querying how I’m doing, but all I can focus on is the line that says Alan Davies, my deputy project lead, is about to take control of my project plan, my team and my board reports.

As I’m working myself up into a well-pulverised stew, I initially miss the approach of people to my bedside, looking up only when someone starts hauling the curtain noisily open.

‘Oh, hello.’ I force a smile, wrenching myself away from my work-related crisis, wondering why I have so many visitors.

‘Alexandra. Good morning.’ The oldest of three doctors, a very tall, thin greying woman, who smells a bit like my late grandmother’s wardrobe and sounds like she’s swallowed a broken harmonica, addresses me. ‘I am Dr Harlow. I understand you had quite a bump to the head yesterday.’

‘I did, yes.’ I hit the button to lock my iPad and give her my full attention. ‘Please, call me Alex.’

‘Of course.’ She nods stiffly, then gestures to her companions. ‘I am accompanied by two medical students this morning. They are here only to observe and further their learning. Are you comfortable to continue the conversation with them in attendance, Alexandra?’

I glance at the two students hanging at the back, one male, one female, peering at me like I’m some newly discovered species. Although Dr Harlow is asking my permission – and she’s doing it very politely – I don’t really feel I have a choice. It reminds me of when I was a child and got a telling-off for asking my mother if Sasha could stay overnight, when Sasha was standing right there. I did it on purpose because it meant my mother couldn’t say no. Karma. Serves me right.

‘OK… sure.’ I half-smile at the two students, who immediately shuffle forward to get a better look at me.

‘Thank you, Alexandra.’ Dr Harlow attempts an amiable smile but it’s so forced it makes her look constipated.

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