Sophie's Run (18 page)

It was Tim’s turn to blush. “I don’t know why I was so cross. I guess I was being stupid. Dina and I chatted about it later that night and I realized that I was hanging on to a grudge that I’d actually given up a long time ago. Dina suggested inviting you, and it seemed like a good idea. I’m glad you made it.”

“So am I,” I agreed. “I wasn’t sure about coming, I was worried I…might somehow be in the way, but it was good and it was a great wedding. Congratulations to you both, I’m so happy for you,” I added somewhat belatedly.

Tim inclined his head in silent acknowledgement of my good wishes.

I caught sight of Dan downing a drink back at our table, and I realized that I was desperately thirsty. And exhausted. “I think it’s time for me to go,” I said.

Unexpectedly, Tim folded me into a hug.

“Goodbye, Sophie,” he spoke solemnly. “I’m glad we got to say our farewells properly at last.”

“Goodbye, Tim,” I returned his valediction, feeling unaccountably choked up. A great weight lifted off my shoulders. Maybe Rachel and Dan had been right. Maybe I had needed to close this chapter of my life. Tim and I let go of each other, and I walked away slowly. Next thing I knew, Tim had reclaimed his bride and they were dancing happily. And so it was that Tim and Dina’s wedding ended on a high and happy note.

As I ambled toward Dan, fragments of emotion and memories skittered around my head like so many colored glass beads, forming pretty, ever-changing patterns, spinning round and round like the ceilidh dancers, and making me dizzy. That awkward stitch in my side was back, too. Breathing was painful and the shallow gasps I took only amplified my dizziness. Quite without warning, I was in the grip of overwhelming, crippling fatigue, so I begged Dan to call for his limo, and we took off twenty minutes later.

“Just take me home,” I mumbled as I stretched out on the long seat, “just home.”

Thus I passed out.

I woke up in the early hours of the morning, completely disorientated. I had been dreaming about the wedding, and the fire, and Dan’s house, and the single, all rolled into a swirling nightmare of confusion and claustrophobia, and when I first woke up, I didn’t quite know what was going on.

The clock on my bedside table said three a.m. I had been asleep for over two hours. And I felt awful.
Really
awful. I was dizzy and cold. My tummy hurt.
Really
hurt. I wanted to be sick.

I dragged myself to the bathroom and sat down next to the toilet, waiting for the inevitable. Yet after a few minutes of sitting shivering on the cold tiles without vomiting, I decided I was probably safe to go back to bed. I made a clumsy detour via the kitchen to make myself a hot water bottle, and I sank gratefully back into bed. I slept fitfully through the rest of the night, waking up every hour or so and repeating the bathroom expedition several times, without success.

At nine in the morning, I really wanted to see a doctor. Of course, it being a Sunday morning, I only got the answerphone for the out-of-hours surgery. Still, I left a message and went back to bed.

Two hours later, I left another message. I vaguely thought about ringing Rachel, but remembered she was still in Cardiff. I thought about ringing Dan, but felt silly. I could look after myself, dammit.

A nurse rang me back at noon. She listened to me carefully and asked me whether I could make it to my surgery for an emergency appointment. Easier said than done. My tummy was so tender, I could barely stand upright, and as for pulling up my trousers or, heaven forbid, doing the button up… No can-do, not today.

It wasn’t far to the surgery, only a few streets away really, but it seemed to take an age. A nurse buzzed me in and bid me to take a seat in the waiting room. There were a few other people there, all in various stages of distress, and I chose a seat at the far end, for fear I might erupt and do some collateral damage.

The chair was uncomfortable, and I struggled to keep upright or balanced so I lay down on the floor instead. I curled up into a ball and concentrated on breathing. Unsurprisingly, things happened quite quickly after that. Within a few minutes, I was whisked off into a treatment room and a doctor tried to determine what ailed me. He asked me a lot of questions, and he took my temperature and my pulse. Then he handed me a small bottle and asked me whether I could possibly pee in it.

I regarded the tiny thing incredulously and tried to imagine hovering over the toilet, balancing awkwardly while…ugh.

“Do I have to?” I checked.

“Yes,” he informed me. “I need to rule out a pregnancy.”

Pregnancy?
I gulped. Not likely. My addled brain couldn’t work out what would be worse, admitting to not having had sex for at least six months, or trying to pee in the bottle. I opted for the bottle.

The doctor helpfully handed me a cardboard cup that looked like an oversized egg box with a spout and encouraged me to use it. Seeing by befuddled expression, he clarified. “You pee in it. When you’re done, you tip it…” He gestured for emphasis.

Obviously, the result came back as expected. “Well, you’re not pregnant,” the doctor announced. He gently prodded my tummy here and there and disappeared, only to return with another doctor. Together, they prodded some more, mumbled something about how I was apparently “guarding” and rubbed their chins, then left me alone for a little while.

I nearly dozed off, feeling cold and clammy and sore. But a few minutes later, both doctors came back and informed me that I was to be taken to hospital. St George’s was only round the corner, so one of the doctors loaded me in his car while the other phoned ahead.

“Thank you,” I said, making a feeble attempt at polite conversation.

“No worries,” came the dry response. “The sooner you get seen, the better. Look, we’re here. An ambulance wouldn’t have even got to the surgery by now.” He parked his car in the ambulance bay and walked me straight through the emergency reception, handing me over to a nurse who was expecting me.

The nurse immediately took my temperature and pulse again, then handed me a bottle to pee into, together with another egg-box-spout contraption.

“I already did that at the surgery,” I pointed out weakly, knowing at the same time that resistance was futile.

“I know,” she told me apologetically. “But we have to make sure.”

Bottle once more filled, I was given a trolley to lie on, a thick blanket, and two paracetamols. I must have slept, because the big clock on the wall suddenly showed two o’clock. I had been there an hour. I felt lonely and frightened. I wanted someone to hold my hand. With Rachel still away, it had to be Dan.

I fumbled to retrieve my mobile phone from my jeans pocket and, half-hiding it under the blanket, I tapped out a quick message to Dan.

Please be at home
, I prayed.
Please come
.

Half an hour later, I was still lying on my trolley under my scratchy blanket, feeling cold and numb with discomfort. Suddenly, somebody said my name, and hurried footsteps came up the corridor, stopped by my trolley. Dan had come, oh thank goodness. He had also brought a nurse with him and immediately asked her a lot of questions, before he had even said hello to me. I felt giddy with relief. Somebody else to take charge.

The nurse scuttled off again, and Dan perched on the side of the bed. He took my hand in one of his and stroked my face with the other. “Now what have we here?” he asked gently.

I shook my head, unable to speak for a moment.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “I’m sure they’ll sort it out soon.”

Whether his appearance had expedited matters or whether my turn had come, I couldn’t know, but suddenly there was action. My trolley was wheeled into an examination room, a doctor appeared as well as a nurse, the GP’s notes were being perused, the pee test discussed, my temperature taken again, my tummy prodded some more.

Finally, the doctor filled me in. “We think you have acute appendicitis,” he declared. “We’re not entirely sure because you’re not quite presenting right, but the best candidate for your symptoms is an angry appendix.” He paused while I took that in.

“We want to operate as soon as possible. We’re waiting for a bed to become available on a ward, and we’ll get going.” He rubbed his hands together energetically, as though he couldn’t wait to get stuck in.

“Meanwhile, we’ll make you a little more comfortable.” He addressed another person who had joined us and issued some incomprehensible instruction. “I’ll be back as soon as we are ready,” he informed me cheerily and left.

The other person introduced herself as a trainee doctor. She announced she would get me ready for the operation. The first thing she did was to close the door, for some privacy. Next, she switched the radio on. Ah, a woman after my own heart.

Dan sat on a stool by my bedside, observing critically and holding my hand.

“Let’s get you hooked up with a line,” the resident announced. “Are you afraid of needles?”

I shook my head. I didn’t particularly like them, but I could deal with them. She tapped the veins in the crook of my elbow a couple of times,
um’d
to herself and tried the other arm. “Not great,” she announced. “You’re a little dehydrated. But let’s have a go.”

Dan looked on aghast as she tried to put a needle in with very little success. One stab, two stabs, three stabs; “Let’s try the other arm, shall we?”

I obediently offered my other arm. While Dan was appalled, I was past caring.

The resident kept trying while the three of us kept a religious silence, and the only thing to be heard was the chatter of the radio.

There, finally! The resident sat back and breathed a sigh of relief. The needle was in. She started fixing it up with surgical tape. Meanwhile, the news had started on the radio and the newsreader was updating us on local events.

…and a man was arrested today following an armed hold-up at an off-license in North London. It was later revealed that his weapon of choice was a cucumber…

Given the palpable tension in the room, this was simply the funniest thing I had ever heard. All three of us erupted into laughter at the same time. Unfortunately, as I was shaking and the resident was jittering, the needle that she had so very carefully inserted popped right back out, leaving a big gash in the skin and a resident back to square one.

Suddenly somber again, she wiped her forehead and said, quite apologetically, “Look, this isn’t working for me today. I’ll get a nurse to put your line in, just hold on a second.”

Within seconds, she was back with the promised nurse, who got the line sorted out with no fuss at all. Finally, they gave me some painkillers and started a saline drip. Just as I was starting to feel relaxed for the first time that day—whatever they had given me was powerful stuff, I felt like I was floating on a cloud—the first doctor returned, brandishing a small bottle and an egg-box-spouty thing.

Buoyed by the new absence of pain, I giggled. “Please don’t make me do another one. I’ve already done two.”

“I know,” he acknowledged. “But if I am to cut you open in an hour, I want to be absolutely sure that I’m not going to stumble across an ectopic pregnancy.”

“Okay,” I sighed theatrically. I felt quite unreal now. Clambering awkwardly off the trolley, I set off for the toilets, dragging my drip on its stand behind me like a pro.

After that, events accelerated. Back at the trolley, the nurse had asked Dan to leave the room while she got me changed into a hospital gown. When Dan was allowed back in, he looked horror-struck as the preparations for my op were picking up pace. He said nothing, though, just stayed and watched. I was absolutely detached from it all, but felt extremely lucid and bright. The pain had gone, and that was all that mattered as far as I was concerned. Papers to sign? Permission slips? Yeah, bring them on, I would sign anything right now.

A porter appeared with a new doctor. They discussed briefly where I was to go, and we were off. The porter was wheeling the trolley, the nurse took charge of the drip stand and the doctor led the way. I caught one last glance of Dan standing in the little examination room, holding my clothes and shoes and looking very forlorn indeed, before the door closed behind me.

Down the corridor we went and into the lifts. The porter pressed button B-3, and I giggled again. “Do all the operations happen in the bottom basement?” I asked apropos of nothing, and the doctor smiled, but nobody said anything.

The lift doors opened and out I was wheeled again. There was a whole group of people waiting for me, and suddenly I felt frightened. It was one thing being given a drip, a gown and a chart, and being wheeled through the hospital on a trolley. Seeing all those people in their blue operating scrubs—well, now, that was scary.

“This is Sophie Penhalligan,” the doctor introduced me conversationally to the group, as though we were meeting at a party. “She has a spot of bother with her appendix, and I think we had better take it out.”

One of the scrubbed-up doctors stepped forward and lifted his mask slightly for me to recognize him. It was the one who had admitted me and made me pee in the third bottle.