Page 1 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
1
NOW
There’s light, soft whirrs and squeaking sounds. The drag of a curtain pulled across. I’m flat on my back, in bed. Not my bed. Not my home. And then back to darkness.
A series of beeps, light pressure on my arm, the scratch of Velcro. I don’t know where I am. I look up, to a ceiling of square tiles with stained patches. My bed’s metal frame, the sheets white and crisp.
The smell of vegetables boiled for too long, a steady click-clack of shoes on tiled flooring. A touch on my arm, skin on skin.
Hospital. But why? I rake through my memories. The pub, the flat, David. My mind catches on David’s name like a jumper snagged on a metal fence. But it’s too hard to think about it. I fade out.
My eyes are open, and there’s a middle-aged woman standing in front of me.
‘Shelley?’ she asks. ‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Hospital,’ I try to say, but no sound comes out.
‘Don’t worry about that, Shelley. It might take a while for you to speak again. You’ve had a tube down your throat. You’re in the hospital. You were involved in an accident.’
I open my mouth, try to speak again. Try to ask for water.
‘Try not to worry about anything. I’m Angela, and I’ll be looking after you during the days while you’re in Intensive Care. It’s one nurse per patient in here, so you get special treatment.’
Intensive Care? I’ve never been inside an Intensive Care unit before. They are for the people who are really ill, the ones who might not get better. Am I one of those people?
I look around to find a window but all I see are other beds, other people being kept alive. Tubes and wires snaking over skin and sheets.
‘I’ll leave you to wake up slowly,’ she says, and bustles away.
I take in the surroundings. Six beds, too far apart for us to speak to each other. I’m on the far end, away from the nurses’ station. A couple of the patients have someone sat beside them, holding their hand. None of them look to be in good shape.
I can feel sleep creeping up on me, and for a moment I try to fight it, but it’s too strong.
Later, Angela passes by, and when she glances at me, I speak.
‘What day is it?’ It comes out as a croak, but I’m so relieved to have my voice back that I don’t care.
‘It’s Tuesday, love.’
It doesn’t really tell me anything. The last thing I can remember is Saturday, but have I lost days or weeks?
‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.
There is pain, but it’s dull. When I tell her that, she asks where it hurts, but it’s so hard to specify. It hurts everywhere. I feel at a disadvantage in this conversation. She’s standing, looking down at me, and I’m lying down. Plus, there’s all this stuff she knows about me. What my body looks like, howlong I’ve been here, what happened to me. And I don’t know anything. Or do I? I see David again, only this time he isn’t pottering in the kitchen, he’s standing over me, his face puce.No, I think.No.Not yet.
‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ I say.
Angela’s brow furrows. ‘Try not to worry about anything. You are safe here.’
I feel like I might cry suddenly. I’m scared. That’s the truth of it. Angela pours water from a jug into a plastic cup and hands it to me. I try to sit up, but she puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me, reaches for the remote control and adjusts the bed.
‘The physio will be round soon, and she’ll help you with your mobility.’ She looks down at her feet, at her sensible shoes, then back up at me. ‘Do you know the date?’
I want to say that I don’t know how long I was out for. ‘It’s September 2017,’ I say instead. ‘I don’t know the date. Twelfth, maybe? Was I in a coma?’
‘Yes,’ she says, nodding as if for extra confirmation. ‘Now, do you know who the prime minister is?’
‘Theresa May,’ I say. Does she think I’m stupid? Brain damaged?
