Pulse(21)

I was on the phone to the Clerk of the Course at Cheltenham. He had called me in some agitation on behalf of the senior racecourse medical officer. It seemed that one of their regular doctors, who had already been signed up, had carelessly collided with a tree while on a skiing holiday in the French Alps and had broken his right leg in six places. He was currently laid up in traction at the Hospital Center De Mo?tiers, and was likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.

‘Er,’ said the Clerk of the Course uneasily, ‘I’m afraid there is one question I am required to ask you.’

‘Go ahead,’ I said.

‘If I remember rightly, I couldn’t use you for the International Meeting in December because you were suspended from your usual employment and therefore unavailable under the racing authority rules. Is that still the case?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It is not still the case.’

There was a sigh of relief from the other end of the line. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I thought so because your name is back on the authority’s list of approved medics.’

That was reassuring.

‘I will send you all the details straight away. Usual email address?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

He disconnected.

I sat calmly at the kitchen table and drank my coffee. Was this another example of my life returning to some degree of normality?

I sincerely hoped so.

Going into Wotton Lawn the previous November had been a nightmare but, in truth, it was only an extension to the nightmare that my life had already become.

Deep down inside I knew that hospital was the best place for me, but that didn’t stop me fighting against it.

I was angry and I took out my frustration on everything and everyone.

I shouted. I screamed. I even tried to run away.

I threatened to kill myself and was placed on a 24-hour suicide watch.

They locked me in my room and tried to force me to eat three meals a day. Then they watched me like hawks to ensure I didn’t nip off to the bathroom to throw the food back up again.

About the only thing they didn’t do was truss me up in a straitjacket.

And I wouldn’t have blamed them if they had.

I was what was known as a difficult patient.

I refused to attend the group therapy sessions and the first person I would speak to was Stephen Butler when he came to see me on the third day.

I quite expected him to tell me off for being so bloody tiresome but he didn’t. Instead, as usual, he just listened tolerantly as I prattled on for ten minutes or more about how awful it was in there and how nasty the staff were to me.

‘But what is the alternative?’ he asked when I finally ran out of steam. ‘You claim you will kill yourself but do you really want to die? Do you want Grant and the boys to have to go on living without you? Do you think they would ever forgive you for being so selfish?’

That shut me up.

Maybe he was telling me off after all.

The trouble was that I felt like I was split in two. Half of me wanted to get better and put an end to this misery, but the other half was in control, trapping me in this horrendous existence, dictating my dreadful thoughts and actions.

I needed to break out – to be me again – but here I was fighting against the very people who were trying to help me.

Stephen came to see me every day for the next week – way beyond what would normally be expected within the health service. He was my friend – my lifeline to which I clung with all my strength.

Grant came too, but somehow we couldn’t communicate.

I was terrified he was getting so pissed off that he’d leave me and, the more frightened I became, the less I was able to speak to him. Crazily, I was not even pleased to see him when he did come to see me. It was as if I was only waiting for the inevitable and preparing myself for the pain to come.

‘What have you told the boys?’ I asked him when he again arrived alone.

‘The truth,’ he said. ‘I told them that their mum wasn’t well and that she would be staying in hospital for a while to get better.’

‘How are they doing? Are you feeding them?’

‘Your mother is doing that,’ Grant said without any hint of emotion. ‘She turned up yesterday afternoon.’

‘My mother! Oh God, does she know I’m in hospital?’

He nodded. ‘The boys told her. They needed to talk to someone.’

Tears flowed freely down my cheeks. My poor boys.

‘Will you please bring them in to see me?’ I asked.

‘Is that wise?’ he replied. ‘Do you really want them to see you like this?’

‘But I miss them,’ I shouted at him.

‘They miss you too. And, if you start eating, you’ll be home with them very soon.’

I wondered if he was punishing me by keeping them away.

If so, I deserved it.

Gradually, during the first two weeks in hospital, the anger in me had subsided and I’d stopped shouting. The screaming had stopped too, at least on the outside.

But it had left me feeling somewhat vacant, almost numb.

It was as if the eating disorder had somehow taken control of my emotions – both the good and the bad. It had become a protective cloak around me, making me immune from worry and fear, but also rendering me unresponsive to love and kindness.