Happy Anniversary Darling Read online

niversary, Darling

  Clare Tanner

  Copyright 2012 Clare Tanner

  Happy Anniversary, Darling

  Their smiles are broad, unforced, as they stand in front of The Orient Express.

  He is realising a long-held wish to embark on this trip aboard the famous train to spend a couple of days in Venice. She is happy to share his dream. Celebrating their 25th Wedding Anniversary, they feel lucky to be here. They are. It could have been so different.

  Twenty years ago:

  Day 1

  Him

  So tired. Never anything else since the baby arrived. Busy job, two tiny children, a trip to Boston for a critical business pitch, and now, the fourth cold in as many weeks. No one said it would be this tough. I say goodbye to my wife, the baby peaceful in her arms. I must get back quickly, so she isn't alone for too long. At least I'll be able to sleep on the plane.

  Her

  So tired. Awake several times every night, with baby or toddler. Never a moment to rest my aching limbs, still at odds with the world after a difficult birth. And now he is going away, across the ocean. How will I cope? Even through my exhaustion I notice the chalky pallor of his skin, the clogged voice, the constant cold. Should he even be on a flight in this state? Why does he work so hard?

  Day 2

  Him

  In my hotel room in Boston. It's the middle of the night here. I feel terrible. Headache, earache like I've never known before. On my own. Most important presentation of my career first thing in the morning. What can I do? I call reception and they send some unfortunate person out into the night to buy painkillers from a 24 hour drugstore.

  "You really ought to see a doctor, Sir," they say.

  I call my wife. Ask her to make an appointment with the doctor for the minute I get back. I try to reassure her.

  "I'll get the presentation done and come straight home. I want to get back. I'll see the GP then."

  Such a long night, and yet so short.

  Her

  He'll be there by now, and back before I know it. It seems like a lifetime already, knowing that he isn't well. The phone rings, as I spoon porridge into the baby's mouth. It won't be him. It's the middle of the night in Boston. It is. Oh, God, what's wrong? He sounds terrible, hollow, muffled, as if his head is encased in fast setting concrete. He has never seemed so far away. He needs me, but I can do nothing. I look at my baby and try to smile, as I hold the phone in one hand and cuddle our toddler with the other. I feel sick inside and my heart thuds helplessly in my chest. I will not have a minute's peace until he is home.

  Day 3/4

  Him

  Driving home from Gatwick, I think. I made it through the presentation. Have no idea what I said. I saw the faces of my audience, bobbing in and out of view as if they were balloons on sticks. Was I really there, or was I dreaming? I don't remember anything about the flight. They had to wake me up on landing. Got to get home. It'll be better then.

  I go to the doctor. My wife has to take me. I feel a little confused.

  "It's an ear infection, compounded my jet lag," I tell her. "They've given me antibiotics."

  She looks relieved.

  Her

  He's home, thank God. How did he drive himself all that way? He looks bad, and is getting worse. I'd better take him to the doctor. I pile the baby and the toddler into the car and drop him off. We pick up provisions while we wait, and find him, wandering aimlessly, a prescription in his hand. At least it is only an ear-infection. He will mend, but I am going to have a tough few days.

  Night 4

  Him

  Where am I? I can't get my bearings. I'm in bed, but how did I get there? I'll go downstairs. That might help. I feel so sick. I hear noises. I see things, people, but they don't add up. Who is that woman, talking to me? I can't hear her. Who is this with her? I've got to get up. Get out. Escape. Where are they taking me?

  Her

  So tired. My husband is asleep. Has been very sick, but is now resting. At least he is being treated. I have phoned his office, to say he won't be in for a couple of days. I lie down to sleep. He wakes up and stumbles out of bed.

  "Where are you going?" I ask.

  "Downstairs, to get my bearings," he replies.

  This doesn't sound right, but I am so tired. I lie down again. The baby starts crying, and the toddler is sick in his bed. So tired. I drag myself out of bed, strip the sheets and settle him back in bed. I hear my husband being sick downstairs. Picking the baby up, I go down to investigate. Bile stained cushions litter the floor, surrounding a man standing, in his underpants, stock still in the middle of the room. I talk to him, but his eyes are vacant, confused. Enormous beads of sweat stand on his back like a network of tiny islands. His head is hot and clammy to the touch. This can't be right. Rocking the baby to and fro in his buggy, I consider my options. How can I phone the doctor when he has only just seen my husband? How can I call him out in the middle of the night for a grown man?

  This isn't right. He doesn't recognise me. He looks angry in his confusion. I am scared. Is he having some sort of breakdown? I reach for the phone, and the doctor is there within minutes, his hair standing on end and his shoelaces undone. Within five minutes he has called an ambulance, and demonstrates his anxiety by standing outside waiting for it to arrive. His fear adds to mine. While we wait, I phone my parents-in-law and wish that they were already here. I don't feel grown up enough to cope with this, but have to make some fast decisions. I wake up my heavily pregnant neighbour and ask her if she could have our toddler, a boy who has never previously been left. I take the baby with me, and am later glad of the comfort of his warm body.

  I follow the ambulance through the foggy November night and pray that I don't run out of petrol. At the hospital the main door is locked and I have to drag the buggy up a steep bank to gain access. Could this be any harder?

  The hospital is empty, echoing in the middle of the night, the strip lights harsh and unfriendly. Tucked round a corner with the baby I hear a doctor on the phone.

  "I am very worried about a thirty-eight year old man. I am getting no response to any of the five senses."

  My stomach churns with fear. This man cannot know that I can hear him. He would have added a little honey to his words if he did. But, in fact, he doesn't. He comes to see me, now settled in a day room.

  "Hello," he says, sitting down in front of me. "I have only been qualified for three days, and this is new to me. I think your husband has meningitis. He is a very sick man."

  This is not happening. Strangely divorced from the proceedings, as if I am sitting on the sofa watching an episode of "Casualty", I feel sorry for him. How hard it must be, at this early stage in his career, to have to say these words to a woman with a baby in her arms, to look her in the eye and tell her that she will lose her husband. I remain calm, and ask all the relevant questions. Calm in a crisis. Surely that is the best approach.

  "I think you are being very brave," he says.

  I bat this away. The implications are too dangerous to consider. I ask him if I should tell my brother-in-law, even though it is the middle of the night. He says that I should. When pressed on how ill my husband is, the best he can give me is "I don't think he is going to die in the next twenty minutes." I reflect that he hasn't been on the customer care course yet, but I am grateful for his honesty. He tells me that my husband needs a lumbar puncture, but that he is "knackered" because he has been on duty for 36 hours, so he will get someone else to do it. I feel sorry for him again, but am pleased that an inexperienced and exhausted junior will not be punching holes in this precio
us man's spine.

  After he has left me, alone at night in this oh so empty institutional day room, my bravery deserts me. I have never felt so alone in my entire life. The tears begin to flow, dripping onto my baby's head. A nurse enters the room and tells me that I must be brave, for "everyone else", she says, looking pointedly at the baby. I hate her, but I do as she says. If he is to survive, I must be strong. I have to be there for him. I have to believe that this will end well. I long for his parents to arrive, to have some wise counsel from those who have trodden this earth for more years than I.

  At 6.30 in the morning, I leave the hospital. I had promised my son that I would be back before he woke and I must not break my word. Whatever happens, I must be true to my children, because I may be all they will have. (I do not let myself think this, but it is nudging at the edges of my brain, like a virus trying to break into a cell.