Читать книгу The Twinkling of an Eye - Sue Brown - Страница 12

‘And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year / ‘Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.’ / And he replied: /‘Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God. / That shall be better to you than light and safer than a known way.’

– The Gate of the Year by Minnie Louise Haskins

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The midsummer sky begins to lighten very early on 31 December, and moves inexorably through its spectrum of pastel shades. The first rays eventually touch the upper slopes of the mountain, then turn the tops of the trees to gold. Light brings the leaden awareness that this day will mark the tipping point between our safe lives to date, and the abyss.

Neil’s mother – who now remarks that she noticed something amiss in Craig’s face during Christmas lunch – fetches Meg for the day. Meg, fourteen and clever but ever sensitive, has not asked any questions. I am sure she knows, as does her brother, that something is badly wrong, but I suspect she is protecting me from having to explain the details to her.

Not wanting to make too much of a fuss, and knowing there is nothing for him to ‘do’, I insist that it is fine for Neil to go to the office for the half day of work on New Year’s Eve. Craig is on the couch, distractedly flicking through his favourite cartoon channels, none of which seem appealing to him today.

I become increasingly anxious as the morning passes by with no word from the GP. His receptionist says he is very busy with patients, and that he has not managed to find an available neurologist.

Unable to absorb the suspense, I turn to the phone book and call Life Vincent Pallotti Hospital’s neurology rooms in Pinelands. The first neurologist is away, but the second has left his cell number for emergencies. To my immense relief, he answers within a few rings from Hermanus where he is on holiday, asking what my child’s symptoms are.

‘He has had months of nausea, which is being treated as reflux; behavioural issues; has facial palsy; and has twice in the past week developed a sudden headache followed by vomiting. Both his optic discs are swollen.’

I must hate to inconvenience this doctor on his holiday – because I feel a perverse relief at knowing these signs are bad enough to warrant my call, that he cannot possibly be rolling his eyes at the imaginings of a panicky mother. And I am appalled that my insecurities can still exist alongside the ghastliness of my son’s illness.

‘He needs a scan urgently,’ he says, wasting no time on small talk. ‘Take him straight to hospital, and I will phone through immediately for authorisation. They’ll let me know the results.’

I thank him profusely for his help, and for taking the call.

It is time to go, I tell Craig.

‘That’s really creepy!’ says Craig to the smiling triage doctor who must first assess him, and who tells this twelve-year-old boy that his symptoms sound like he has suffered a stroke. My son’s first line of defence against his own anxiety is trying to turn the doctor’s appraisal into a joke.

We progress to an officious casualty officer, who says, perhaps a little put out by the orders from the neurologist: ‘I am sure this is just Bell’s Palsy. But, just to be sure, we’ll do the scan.’

I am irritated by his patronising manner, but choose not to contradict him with the infinitely more terrifying reality in front of my child. I know that the scans will all too soon prove him wrong, but I am feeling too emotional to trust myself not to cry if I say so.

Craig is wheeled on a trolley along deserted passages to the dimly lit cavern of the radiology department. Soon to close up for New Year’s celebrations, the radiographers are in festive spirits. They congratulate their patient for wearing a black T-shirt featuring a brightly sequinned Baby Milo monkey, inadvertently matching their own ‘Black and Bling’ dress code for the day.

His head and shoulders are tightly clipped into a special head cage as he slides into the claustrophobic MRI tube. He has strict instructions not to stir. A panic button is in his hand in case he needs help. I put a hand on his leg, where it protrudes from the machine, and we are left in the dim chamber as the machine begins its knocking and banging. Electronic arpeggios impassively sending the all-important images of Craig’s brain to the monitor outside.

The radiologist comes in after the first series of pictures. He is poker-faced, but his manner is gentle as he supervises Craig being slid out of the tube and released from the cage, and injects contrast medium into his elbow vein.

They’re about to begin the next series of pictures when I see Craig’s chest heaving – he is soundlessly vomiting while pinned on his back in the head cage.

‘That was horrible!’ he manages, shaking his head, when the staff immediately release and help him upright. My heart aches at Craig’s pale boy torso, now stripped of his soiled, Baby Milo monkey T-shirt – and, with it, his brave armour – as he leans over pulled-up knees in otherworldly light.

After Craig’s hair, face and neck are wiped as clean as possible, the radiologist urges his team to complete the scans quickly. He stands deferentially aside as the porter arrives to push Craig’s trolley back to casualty, saying only that a neurosurgeon will discuss the results with us in person.

It’s a tacit confirmation that the news is bad. Terrified of hearing the prognosis, I do not ask, running away from the inevitable for just a little longer.

Neil arrives to meet us. His eyes are question marks. The casualty officer, now a little wide-eyed, too, concedes there is indeed ‘something on the scans’.

There is a white board at the heart of the casualty ward, which, over numerous rubbings out, lists the names of the specialists on call. As Craig wheels past, I am relieved to see ‘Dr Farrier’ next to ‘neurosurgeon’ – a highly respected name in the field.

This very surgeon’s late father had been our much-loved Methodist minister – the man who married Neil and I nineteen years ago. The one who had held my infant son, who made the sign of the cross on his forehead, who baptised him.

It feels right that, if anyone should now cut into that same, precious head, it should be his own son.