“Are you
ready?” She asks, dark circles under her eyes, which no amount of sleep can
erase.
I reply
with a nod, and reassuring smile, sitting down on the stairs as my son had done
half an hour before. I put on some trainers, and give my feet a stretch in the
stranger footwear.
Elena
drives. It is unusual, watching her drive me. She is rough on the gears and
gives too much gas, but is careful still. She looks both sides before pulling
out at junctions, and knows where every crossing is, slowing down and letting
pedestrians cross, increasing a debt of good deeds. The roads are busy, parents
getting to work after the school-run, mums running back home to put the laundry
out, and some dads dropping off their kids who are late for the first lesson of
the day.
Although
we sit in traffic every few minutes, I do not notice much of the journey. I am
aware that Elena looks at me every once in a while and smiles her dimpled
smile. I am aware she switches the radio on to break the silence, but keeps it
at a low volume in case I feel the need to talk. I am aware that she is taking
the quickest route to the hospital, the same we have been taking for the last
few visits made there.
I switch
off the air conditioning and roll down the window, craving real air as we turn
off the main road onto a curvy lane that leads straight to the next town. The
wind blows my hair away from my face and I let the sunshine bathe my face from
in between the tall trees. As we near the hospital, my heart is again reminded
of why we make this trip on the sunny Wednesday morning, and takes the chance
to beat a little louder and a little faster.
Elena
parks, front first into a spare bay by the west entrance. She reverses, and
straightens up, and then reverses again to straighten up. Happy that she is
within the white lines, and that we both have enough space to get in and out of
the car without hitting the white pick-up truck on my side, or the silver
Mercedes on hers, she switches off the engine and gives me one final car smile.
We slam
the car doors shut. Not at the same time, but close enough together to mimic my
heart beat. Ticket paid for and displayed. Way made to the entrance and to the
correct department, where the receptionist is informed of our arrival. We sit
only for a few moments in the near-empty waiting are. There are only two other
people who take command of the green plastic seats: a lanky teenager, with a
defined jaw, dark brown hair, good skin and beauty spots, and a woman who is
perhaps in her mid-forties or, if time has been unkind gifting greys and deep
set lines, in her late-thirties.
Jacqui,
the nurse who had seen me all the way through, pigeon-steps into the waiting
area with her small feet and wiry black hair. She gives my wife and me a big
smile, and speaks in her thick, sweet Philippine accent, “Hello Mr. Jane, and
Mrs. Jane. How are you? Are you ready? There is no need to worry, Dr. Andrews
is very good. Very good.”
She
continues to comment on the practised doctor, speaking fast, not letting me reply
as I leave my wife with a kiss and squeeze of a hand. She leads me down the
white corridor, plastered with posters on health, transplants and new NHS
procedures and schemes, then through swing doors which take us down a bare
corridor.
***
The ceiling is flickered with
moving yellow dots. I squint my eyes, and then shut, but the dots are still
there, tattooed to the inside of my eyelids. Open again, and Dr. Andrews peers
over me. I can tell he is smiling from underneath his mask by the deep laugh
lines around his eyes which seem to get deeper every time we meet. Over my
other side, a young man with strawberry blonde hair and striking blue eyes
stares at me.
Dr.
Andrews, veteran, marked with whites sweeping back from his sideburns and
infesting his thick black eyebrows, introduces me to Dr. Saunders, the
anaesthetist maybe, “Who will be assisting this morning. Lucky you, two great
doctors, eh. We’re going to start you on a little local anaesthetic.”
I am
certain that the young, blonde Doctor can hear my heart hammering my chest to
get out because he whispers, “A little something to take the edge off,” coupled
with a chuckle and the gas mask being lowered to my cold face.
I count
backwards as directed by the men in bluey-green scrubs. Ten, nine, eight,
seven...
