you can prescribe to stop it?’
‘If nothing is visible on the skin, not really. Try aspirin – or ibuprofen – if the pain gets too much.’
When I related all this to Margaret half an hour later, she became belligerent.
‘Typical English quack. Take two aspirin, and stiffen your upper lip.’
‘My usual GP is much better.’
‘Then get back on the phone and demand to see her. Better yet, insist that she makes a house call. They will do that, if coerced.’
‘Maybe he’s right. Maybe it is some minor allergic reaction …’
‘What is this? After just a couple of months in London, you’re already adopting a “grin and bear it” attitude?’
In a way, Margaret was right. I didn’t want to whine about my condition – especially as it wasn’t my nature to get sick, let alone break out in manic itches. So I tried to busy myself by unpacking several boxes of books, and attempting to read a few back issues of the New Yorker. I resisted the temptation to call Tony at the paper and tell him just how bad I was feeling. Eventually I stripped off all my clothes again and started scratching my skin so hard that I actually began to bleed around my shoulders. I took refuge in the bathroom. I let out a scream of sheer, unequivocal frustration and pain as I waited for the bath to fill. After scalding myself for the third time, I finally called Tony at the paper, saying, ‘I think I’m in real trouble here.’
‘Then I’m on my way.’
He was back within the hour. He found me shivering in the bath, even though the water was still near boiling. He got me dressed. He helped me into the car and drove straight across Wandsworth Bridge, then up the Fulham Road, and parked right opposite the Mattingly Hospital. We were inside the Casualty Department within moments – and when Tony saw that the waiting room was packed, he had a word with the triage nurse, insisting that, as I was pregnant, I should be seen straight away.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, like everyone else here.’
Tony tried to protest, but the nurse was having none of it.
‘Sir, please sit down. You can’t jump the queue unless…’
At that very moment, I supplied the unless, as the constant itch suddenly transformed into a major convulsion. Before I knew what was happening, I pitched forward and the world went black.
When I came to, I was stretched out in a steel hospital bed, with several intravenous tubes protruding from my arms. I felt insanely groggy – as if I had just emerged from a deep narcotic sleep. For a moment or two, the thought struck me: where am I? Until the world came into focus and I found myself in a long ward – one of a dozen or so women, enveloped by tubes, respiratory machines, foetal monitors and other medical paraphernalia. I managed to focus on the clock situated at the end of the ward: 3.23 pm … with a greyish light visible behind the thin hospital curtains. 3.23 pm Tony and I had arrived at the hospital around eight last night. Could I have been out cold for … what?… seventeen hours’?
I managed to summon up enough strength to push the call-button by the side of the bed. As I did so, I involuntarily blinked for an instant and was suddenly visited by a huge wave of pain around the upper half of my face. I also became aware of the fact that my nose had been heavily taped. The area around my eyes also felt bruised and battered. I pressed the call-button even harder. Eventually, a small Afro-Caribbean nurse arrived at my bedside. When I squinted to read her name tag – Howe – my face felt pulverized again.
‘Welcome back,’ she said with a quiet smile.
‘What happened?’
The nurse reached for the chart at the end of the bed and read the notes.
‘Seems you had a little fainting spell in reception. You’re lucky that nose of yours wasn’t broken. And you didn’t lose any teeth.’
‘How about the baby?’
A long anxious silence as Nurse Howe scanned the notes again.
‘No worries. The
‘If nothing is visible on the skin, not really. Try aspirin – or ibuprofen – if the pain gets too much.’
When I related all this to Margaret half an hour later, she became belligerent.
‘Typical English quack. Take two aspirin, and stiffen your upper lip.’
‘My usual GP is much better.’
‘Then get back on the phone and demand to see her. Better yet, insist that she makes a house call. They will do that, if coerced.’
‘Maybe he’s right. Maybe it is some minor allergic reaction …’
‘What is this? After just a couple of months in London, you’re already adopting a “grin and bear it” attitude?’
In a way, Margaret was right. I didn’t want to whine about my condition – especially as it wasn’t my nature to get sick, let alone break out in manic itches. So I tried to busy myself by unpacking several boxes of books, and attempting to read a few back issues of the New Yorker. I resisted the temptation to call Tony at the paper and tell him just how bad I was feeling. Eventually I stripped off all my clothes again and started scratching my skin so hard that I actually began to bleed around my shoulders. I took refuge in the bathroom. I let out a scream of sheer, unequivocal frustration and pain as I waited for the bath to fill. After scalding myself for the third time, I finally called Tony at the paper, saying, ‘I think I’m in real trouble here.’
‘Then I’m on my way.’
He was back within the hour. He found me shivering in the bath, even though the water was still near boiling. He got me dressed. He helped me into the car and drove straight across Wandsworth Bridge, then up the Fulham Road, and parked right opposite the Mattingly Hospital. We were inside the Casualty Department within moments – and when Tony saw that the waiting room was packed, he had a word with the triage nurse, insisting that, as I was pregnant, I should be seen straight away.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, like everyone else here.’
Tony tried to protest, but the nurse was having none of it.
‘Sir, please sit down. You can’t jump the queue unless…’
At that very moment, I supplied the unless, as the constant itch suddenly transformed into a major convulsion. Before I knew what was happening, I pitched forward and the world went black.
When I came to, I was stretched out in a steel hospital bed, with several intravenous tubes protruding from my arms. I felt insanely groggy – as if I had just emerged from a deep narcotic sleep. For a moment or two, the thought struck me: where am I? Until the world came into focus and I found myself in a long ward – one of a dozen or so women, enveloped by tubes, respiratory machines, foetal monitors and other medical paraphernalia. I managed to focus on the clock situated at the end of the ward: 3.23 pm … with a greyish light visible behind the thin hospital curtains. 3.23 pm Tony and I had arrived at the hospital around eight last night. Could I have been out cold for … what?… seventeen hours’?
I managed to summon up enough strength to push the call-button by the side of the bed. As I did so, I involuntarily blinked for an instant and was suddenly visited by a huge wave of pain around the upper half of my face. I also became aware of the fact that my nose had been heavily taped. The area around my eyes also felt bruised and battered. I pressed the call-button even harder. Eventually, a small Afro-Caribbean nurse arrived at my bedside. When I squinted to read her name tag – Howe – my face felt pulverized again.
‘Welcome back,’ she said with a quiet smile.
‘What happened?’
The nurse reached for the chart at the end of the bed and read the notes.
‘Seems you had a little fainting spell in reception. You’re lucky that nose of yours wasn’t broken. And you didn’t lose any teeth.’
‘How about the baby?’
A long anxious silence as Nurse Howe scanned the notes again.
‘No worries. The
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