Page 24 of The Moment I Met You
‘I need to talk to someone about Harry. About my boyfriend,’ I say, refusing to budge.
There is some to-ing and fro-ing, and the nurse’s colleagues seem to find it amusing that she is unable to budge the small English person, despite her superior size. Eventually, another woman intervenes, after making a quick phone call. She speaks first in Spanish, and then says in English, ‘You will see Dr Martinez, yes? He will talk to you.’
I nod, and feel weak with relief. I couldn’t have kept that up much longer. I am led to a tiny room, almost entirely filled with a desk, with bookshelves, with filing cabinets. Behind it all sits a man in his thirties, so handsome he could be a movie star, with thick dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He looks tired but kind. He smiles and gestures for me to sit in the chair opposite him.
The nurse, obviously relieved to have me off my feet, gives me a pat on my good hand before she leaves.
‘Do you speak English?’ I ask immediately, hoping we’re not going to have to have this entire conversation in my terrible Spanish.
‘I do, yes. My name is Dr Antonio Martinez. I was on duty here when you and your friend were brought in. How are you feeling?’
As he speaks, he moves from his side of the desk to mine, and pulls the stethoscope from around his neck. I tolerate it as he listens to my heartbeat, knowing it will be easier to go along.
‘I’m feeling sore but basically fine. Can you please tell me about my boyfriend? About Harry? I have no idea where he is, or … how he is …’
He nods, and makes a ‘just one moment’ gesture as he straps a blood-pressure cuff to my arm. By this stage it is entirely possible that my blood pressure is through the roof out of sheer frustration. He seems happy with the result and goes back to his side of the desk.
‘He is alive, and he is here,’ he says. ‘He was brought in as soon as the rescue reached Santa Maria de Alto. You, obviously, were there a little longer.’
This simple confirmation allows me to breathe again. I didn’t realise quite how much the worry was crowding my chest, squatting on my lungs, keeping me tense and terrified.
‘Can I see him? How is he?’ I ask, realising after the first wave of relief that Dr Martinez has made no mention of his condition. There was no casual ‘he’s fine’ attached to his statement. There is more to come, and I can tell from the look on his face that I’m not going to like it.
‘Please tell me,’ I say.
He nods, and picks up a pen, which he flicks backwards and forwards through his fingers. It looks like he’s twirling a tiny baton.
‘Harry suffered from severe crush injuries during the earthquake. He was placed in an induced coma, because of swelling in the brain. There is also significant swelling and damage to his spinal cord. We are hopeful that he will survive, but we cannot, at this stage, predict the level of recovery that he can expect.’
I stare at the doctor, strangely disconnected from the words. From the thought of Harry – my always-confident, always-vibrant Harry – being in a coma. Being so badly hurt.
It just doesn’t make any sense. I understood, even if I didn’t want to, that he could have been killed. I suppose I might even have been preparing myself for that possibility, even though I thought it more likely that he’d be fine. That his sheer swagger would somehow protect him, that a force field of self-belief would pop up around him like an umbrella.
This, though? This is an unexpected in-between land.
‘But he will get better, won’t he?’ I finally ask, frowning. ‘Eventually. He will get better?’
‘We are not a specialist unit, which is where he should be. As soon as the brain injury is stable, we can look at those options. For now, I can’t give you any firm answers. The majority of the damage is in the lumbar area of the spine, which does mean that his upper body should be fine.’
‘His upper body?’ I repeat quietly.
‘Yes. As for his legs, his ability to walk, we simply don’t know. He may never regain full use. He may be able to after surgery or rehabilitation. He might need a wheelchair. He might not. I understand how difficult this is, hearing so many “mights” – I wish I could be more certain, but these types of injuries are unpredictable. Even people with exactly the same injury can recover completely differently. We just can’t say at this stage.
‘I’ve already explained that to his parents, so you might want to talk it through with them as well. They’ve been asking after you, and did visit while you were still unconscious. Your own mother was planning to fly out as well, but we told her you were expected to recover with no side effects, so she is waiting to hear from you before she decides.’
My mind is still reeling, still knocked off its axis by the news about Harry, and it takes me a while to respond. I nod numbly and mumble, ‘Thank you. I’ll call her as soon as I can. I need to go and see Harry now.’
Dr Martinez lays down his pen and fixes me with concerned eyes. He really is extraordinarily good-looking – like one of the doctors in the telenovelas Harry and I were watching in the hotel in another lifetime, giggling at the high drama and big hair.
‘Before you do that, Elena, we need to talk about you.’
‘Me? What about me? I know my arm is broken. I know I’ll probably have a scar on my face. But I’m fine. I’m okay. I was … lucky?’
It doesn’t feel like quite the right word, but it is. I am lucky to be alive. Lucky to not have a spinal cord injury. Lucky to be sitting here, talking. I must be thankful for it all.
‘Did you know,’ he asks slowly, examining me carefully, waiting for a reaction, ‘that you were pregnant?’
Chapter 10
