My Oxford Year(87)

His eyes are rolled back in his head.

I scream.





Chapter 27


A sickle for my friend, the weary,

A sickle quick and true,

A sickle, by God’s grace in heav’n,

A sickle waits for you.

Unknown, “Fragment”

It’s the waiting that gets to me. Waiting for William and Antonia to come bursting through the door. Waiting for someone to call 999. Waiting for the medevac helicopter to come. Waiting for Jamie to get strapped to the gurney. Waiting for William to tell me what I already know, that I should go with Jamie and they’ll meet me at the hospital. Waiting while the EMTs force oxygen into my boyfriend and the helicopter finally arrives in Glasgow. Waiting in an uncomfortable chair after seeing him whisked away behind doors that shut with a frightening finality.

A lot of thinking happens while I’m waiting, but it’s not productive thinking. It’s fragmented. It’s heightened, panicked, often without context. How did this happen so fast? Thank God I threw on my robe before his parents came in. I forgot to tell the EMTs about the anemia. In and out and between these thoughts, another one keeps looping in my head, unattached to any other thread, bobbing and weaving and coming in for the occasional jab:

If he comes through this . . .

The phrase just appears and disappears and reappears again. If he comes through this. Like a pledge, a deal in the making. With whom or with what and to what end, I don’t know. If he comes through this . . .

What?

Am I bargaining? Already experiencing one of the five stages of grief?

Finally, Antonia and William arrive. They want to know everything, and I know nothing. All I can say is that he was unconscious but breathing when we arrived. They collapse in relief and I think, This is the gold standard now? Unconscious but breathing? We huddle together, a triad of hope.

Now the waiting really begins.

If he comes through this . . .

An eternity later, a doctor appears, mask hanging down at her tanned-leather throat, paper hat atop her platinum spiked hair. Her voice is Scots steel. “I’m Dr. Corrigan, I’ve been attending to James. Mr. and Mrs. Davenport?” She looks to Antonia and William. They nod. She turns to me. “And you’re . . .” She checks the chart she’s holding. “Eleanor? I’m sorry to say I haven’t much information at the moment. I’m waiting to receive his records from Oxford. The medic said that he’s just finished a drug trial?” I nod. She looks again at the chart, her crow’s-feet crinkling. “And you say he was fine last night?”

I answer. “Yes. I mean, he was warm and his breathing was a little strained, but—”

“Was he exerting himself? Doing anything strenuous?”

I pause. I don’t know if I want to go there right now.

“Doctor,” William interjects. “Any idea what this is?”

She glances up from the chart. “Pneumonia.”

All of us sigh in relief. “Thank God,” Antonia breathes.

The doctor holds up a hand, urging restraint. “It’s acute.”

“It’s not the cancer,” William says. “Pneumonia is curable.”

“Under normal circumstances, yes.”

William steals the words from my mouth. “What does that mean?”

Dr. Corrigan takes a breath. “Firstly, I’ve never seen it come on this quickly, this aggressively. Secondly, your son’s immune system is severely compromised. He’s very few resources to fight this. We’ve put him in a medically induced coma.”

“What?” For the first time since I’ve known her, Antonia looks terrified. Which in turn terrifies me.

“It keeps him from struggling,” the doctor assures her. “It gives him, and us, the best chance of fighting this.” Her tone shifts, turning more sympathetic. She must see our fear. “Please understand, it isn’t uncommon to contract pneumonia after a round of chemotherapy. It’s the severity that’s unsettling.” She looks at me and continues. “Does he drink?”

I look at Antonia and William. “Not much. But he had more alcohol last night than he’s had in months.”

The doctor considers this, then asks, “Has he had any recent exposure to chemicals? A cleaning agent? Paint thinner, glue—”

“Oh God. The floors.” Everyone looks at me. “He stripped and stained an entire floor of his house a few days ago.”

Now the doctor nods. “Did he wear a mask?”

“N-no, but we had every window open, we ventilated . . .” My voice rasps, running out of steam. I feel terrible. But why is this the sort of information you get after the fact?

“That’s quite helpful,” the doctor says, as if she’s found the missing piece to a puzzle. “The next twenty-four hours should tell us more. I’ll run some blood tests, do an MRI, a liver scan, and wait for his files. Feel free to go home and we’ll ring when we know more.”

William and I both say, “We’re not going anywhere.”

Corrigan nods once. “Then sit tight and I’ll come back as soon as I know anything.”

“Anything, Doctor. Please,” Antonia is compelled to say. I hate seeing her this helpless.

The doctor leaves.

We sit and we wait.