the strange, impersonal image like an illustration in a textbook.
Cat stared. The cross section—the slice, the layers of this image inside the bony cavity—was the inside of her husband’s brain, Chris, the father of her children, Dr Chris, the man she loved and had been with for fourteen years. Chris. Chris’s brain.
Dr Louise Parker , the badge read in black letters on pale blue plastic. Neurological Senior Registrar .
She was leaning forward, pointing at the screen with the cursor.
Richard Serrailler cleared his throat.
“Yes,” Cat said. “I see it.”
It was always the way. You knew, but you pretended you did not; you feared the worst, not because you were a pessimist but because you knew the medical facts. It was your job.
She had known.
“The lesion is here,” Dr Parker said, highlighting the shadowed area. “It’s already quite large. He must have had symptoms, but they can grow pretty rapidly as you know. The pressure just reached a point where it triggered off some electrical activity, causing him to fit. It would explain the mood changes—personality changes.”
“Yes,” Cat said.
“Has he complained of headaches?”
“He has, but he didn’t imply they were severe—I put it down to the stress of packing up and travelling. Jet lag. He’s been very tired—I should have realised. I should have known it wasn’t prolonged jet lag.”
“Easy to miss. He says he’s vomited a couple of times in the last few days.”
“He didn’t tell me. Why didn’t he say anything?” She looked at her father but could not read his expression because there was none. He might not have heard the conversation.
Chris’s brain. She looked at the shadowed portion, trying to assess exactly where the tumour lay in relation to the rest, to assess the prognosis, to behave as if she were a doctor and this were a patient’s scan. To behave like her father.
“It doesn’t look good,” she said at last.
“No. Dr Ling will look at it first thing tomorrow and talk to you about the options.”
“May I see Chris?” I am a helpless relative, she thought. Everything has changed.
“Of course. I’ll take you along. Dr Serrailler?”
“I’ll wait in the car. No point in crowding him.”
*
Chris was in a side ward. The lights were dimmed. Three other beds, one with a prone figure, one humped over. One with the curtains drawn. Murmured voices. Drip stands. Cat felt a swell of fear.
He was propped up on a pillow rest. Hospital gown.
“I’ll go and see if someone can find him pyjamas,” the registrar said.
Hospital pyjamas.
But he was Chris. He looked no different. Somehow she had expected him to have changed.
He looked at her. Looked away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She hadn’t meant to accuse. “You must have known it wasn’t just jet lag.”
“I used to have migraines—in my teens. I thought they’d come back.”
She put her hand on his.
“Seen the scan?”
“Yes. MRI diagnosis is for the experts. You’ll see the neurologist in the morning.”
“Where are the children?”
“With Judith.”
“Who’s Judith?”
“Dad’s friend. You’ve had a sedative, don’t worry.”
Chris was silent. Drowsing? Thinking?
She moved to get up but he turned his hand quickly, pinning her own down. Cat leaned over and stroked his forehead. “I’ll come in early.”
“If it’s a grade-four I want you to give me a morphine overdose. Promise me.”
“Don’t try and diagnose yourself.”
“ Promise me , Cat.”
She was silent. She could not promise. She could not begin to think of what it would mean if he was right. But he wasn’t right.
“A glioma. Anything above a grade two. Please.”
“Try to sleep. But you know there are plenty of other brain tumours. Don’t leap straight to the worst. Don’t think about it any more tonight.” For God’s sake, she thought, how stupid. How stupid, stupid, stupid. Don’t think about it any more . As if.
She leaned over to kiss
Cat stared. The cross section—the slice, the layers of this image inside the bony cavity—was the inside of her husband’s brain, Chris, the father of her children, Dr Chris, the man she loved and had been with for fourteen years. Chris. Chris’s brain.
Dr Louise Parker , the badge read in black letters on pale blue plastic. Neurological Senior Registrar .
She was leaning forward, pointing at the screen with the cursor.
Richard Serrailler cleared his throat.
“Yes,” Cat said. “I see it.”
It was always the way. You knew, but you pretended you did not; you feared the worst, not because you were a pessimist but because you knew the medical facts. It was your job.
She had known.
“The lesion is here,” Dr Parker said, highlighting the shadowed area. “It’s already quite large. He must have had symptoms, but they can grow pretty rapidly as you know. The pressure just reached a point where it triggered off some electrical activity, causing him to fit. It would explain the mood changes—personality changes.”
“Yes,” Cat said.
“Has he complained of headaches?”
“He has, but he didn’t imply they were severe—I put it down to the stress of packing up and travelling. Jet lag. He’s been very tired—I should have realised. I should have known it wasn’t prolonged jet lag.”
“Easy to miss. He says he’s vomited a couple of times in the last few days.”
“He didn’t tell me. Why didn’t he say anything?” She looked at her father but could not read his expression because there was none. He might not have heard the conversation.
Chris’s brain. She looked at the shadowed portion, trying to assess exactly where the tumour lay in relation to the rest, to assess the prognosis, to behave as if she were a doctor and this were a patient’s scan. To behave like her father.
“It doesn’t look good,” she said at last.
“No. Dr Ling will look at it first thing tomorrow and talk to you about the options.”
“May I see Chris?” I am a helpless relative, she thought. Everything has changed.
“Of course. I’ll take you along. Dr Serrailler?”
“I’ll wait in the car. No point in crowding him.”
*
Chris was in a side ward. The lights were dimmed. Three other beds, one with a prone figure, one humped over. One with the curtains drawn. Murmured voices. Drip stands. Cat felt a swell of fear.
He was propped up on a pillow rest. Hospital gown.
“I’ll go and see if someone can find him pyjamas,” the registrar said.
Hospital pyjamas.
But he was Chris. He looked no different. Somehow she had expected him to have changed.
He looked at her. Looked away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She hadn’t meant to accuse. “You must have known it wasn’t just jet lag.”
“I used to have migraines—in my teens. I thought they’d come back.”
She put her hand on his.
“Seen the scan?”
“Yes. MRI diagnosis is for the experts. You’ll see the neurologist in the morning.”
“Where are the children?”
“With Judith.”
“Who’s Judith?”
“Dad’s friend. You’ve had a sedative, don’t worry.”
Chris was silent. Drowsing? Thinking?
She moved to get up but he turned his hand quickly, pinning her own down. Cat leaned over and stroked his forehead. “I’ll come in early.”
“If it’s a grade-four I want you to give me a morphine overdose. Promise me.”
“Don’t try and diagnose yourself.”
“ Promise me , Cat.”
She was silent. She could not promise. She could not begin to think of what it would mean if he was right. But he wasn’t right.
“A glioma. Anything above a grade two. Please.”
“Try to sleep. But you know there are plenty of other brain tumours. Don’t leap straight to the worst. Don’t think about it any more tonight.” For God’s sake, she thought, how stupid. How stupid, stupid, stupid. Don’t think about it any more . As if.
She leaned over to kiss
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