Two Kinds Of Truth(57)

“If you would like to follow me, please.”



***



I find the small relatives’ room a little claustrophobic. There’s no window or natural light and the air is stale and lifeless. I leave the door ajar as I step out into the corridor. From where I’m standing, I can see around the ward and along to where Alasdair now lies in an induced coma. I’m so grateful he’s alive, but terrified he’s going to die. I can’t bear to see him lying there, so still and lifeless. He’s always been so robust, so hardworking and strongminded. To see him like this, helpless, weak and feeble, is more than I can stomach.

Long curtains hang around each of the beds. Some are pulled closed whilst others are used to separate each patient and give them a little privacy. Medical staff surround Alasdair’s bed, but no one has been able to give us any real answers. “He’s stable” the nurse had said when he came out of resus. “I hear he’s lucky to be alive,” the porter in the lift had said.

A flurry of movement catches my eye as the medical team begin to file away from his bed. The consultant is in deep discussions with two of his associates. I stare at the doctor who accompanied me and Jamie to the ward, but he simply walks on by. My gaze follows him, willing him to turn around and retrace his steps, but he carries on going, oblivious to our distress. When he disappears around a corner, I let out a disappointed sigh.

“Mr and Mrs McKinley?”

“Oh, no, I’m not—”

“Listen. You should both go home and try and get some rest.”

There’s the scrape of a chair along the floor and then Jamie’s voice fills the corridor.

“Can ye tell us how he’s doing?” he says. “Only no one’s given us any updates.”

I look at Jamie, but then flick my gaze towards the ITU nurse. Her mouth droops a little at one corner.

“I think the doctor explained to you why Mr McKinley, your grandfather, has been given a paralytic drug,” she tells him.

We both shake our heads simultaneously. “No, actually; no one did,” I say.

She lifts an eyebrow and glances down to study the paperwork in her hands.

“Well, basically, your grandfather suffered a cardiac arrest. The drug has been administered because the consultant wants his body to rest. He’s also been placed on a ventilator and the drugs will help stop any discomfort. Due to the arrest, his brain needs to recover, and so we’re doing everything we can to reduce the risk of brain damage.”

“Does that mean he may be a vegetable?” I ask.

The nurse squeezes the top of my shoulder.

“I have to be honest; there’s always a risk, but so far he’s responded well to treatment, and as long as his vital signs remain stable, we’ll be weaning him off the ventilator tomorrow morning.”

An alarm sounds. It’s one of the machines attached to another patient, and a red light flashes at the nurses’ station. The nurse spins around to check someone is dealing with it. A tall woman, wearing sensible black shoes, hurries down the corridor and over to the bed. She checks the patient’s vital signs and then calmly switches off the alarm.

The staff nurse turns her attention back to us.

“Go home,” she says. “We’ll call you if there’s any change.”

I look at Jamie for guidance and he nods. “Okay, we’ll be back in the morning.”

The nurse smiles, and for the first time I realise she’s not as old as I at first thought. “I think that’s best,” she says. “Your grandfather needs lots of rest if he’s to recover.”

“Can we just sit with him for a moment?” Jamie asks. The nurse’s frown reappears, but she stands aside to allow us to pass.

“Just a few minutes,” she says. “Then it’s home for both of you.”

She leads us to granda’s bedside. The blinds are pulled down and bright streams of sunlight seep onto the bedclothes. Alasdair’s surrounded by lifesaving equipment and he’s hooked up to a multitude of grey wires and long plastic tubes. His eyes are closed and I’ve never seen him look so pale. There’s dark-grey smudges around his eye sockets and thin blue lines across his lids. His skin is chalk white.

The ventilator makes a shushing sound as it pushes oxygen into Alasdair’s body, and he’s surrounded by temperature gauges and tall silver poles with hooks that can hold bags of either saline or blood. My eyes trail to the hospital gown Alasdair’s wearing. It seems wrong to see him dressed in something clinical. I’m used to his old battered cardigan and corduroy trousers, and I struggle not to fall apart.

There’s a small upright unit by his bed where his clothes are kept. I can see his shirt hanging inside, and his shoes are placed side by side on a shelf.

I take Jamie’s hand, surprised to find his fingers are stone cold.

He lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s hard to believe granda’s fighting for his life,” he says. “He’s always been there for me. I just cannae imagine life without him.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I chide. “He’s a fighter, and the nurse says everything looks promising. We must stay positive.”

He spares just a millisecond to nod at me and then moves closer to granda and gently strokes the back of his hand.

“When Claire died, I couldnae eat or sleep. I was so confused, and angry with the world. It was as though I was stuck in limbo, where nothing made sense and I couldnae differentiate between reality and my own imagination. Granda saved me from myself. He was the one who held me together and stopped the grief from destroying me.”