The Exchange

A very personal short story on love and liberty, submitted anonymously in the run-up to the Convention on Modern Liberty.

When I first met her she could walk. With difficulty, not quickly and only with a heavy hand on a frame, but walk all the same. Attempting, though inevitably failing, to keep pace on her young daughter, racing along the ward towards the patients’ day room. What was striking was the wedding photograph; past the usual collection of hospital paraphernalia stood a well worn photograph of smiling couple, flowers in hands, in a studio somewhere. Somewhere indeed. Somewhere far from here. Three years had past, during which they had given birth to young daughter and soon afterwards it became apparent that she was more than ‘under the weather’. “They don’t routinely give the vaccine back home” she casually remarks…

Inexhaustible energy drives the medics to explore every avenue. Where some would have been despondent, they persisted, working late, liaising with colleagues, any viable option considered. In the background the junior doctors play with the daughter, letting her use their stethoscopes to hear their hearts. She may not speak English, but the smiles, nods and occasionally frowns together with the peculiar collection of words she’s learnt- “tha-mom-me-ta”, “gam- mar” which she uses to communicate with her new ‘extended family’.

Most afternoons mum rests in bed with a small visitor spread across her lap. On the chair beside is the grandmother. Each time I see her she appears to loose more weight, under her eyes the signs of countless nights of interrupted sleep are visible to all. She too seizes the opportunity to rest, albeit briefly, given the fiery outbursts of the confused patient the far side of the flimsy curtain barrier.

After assisting with dinner, despite the nurses attempts to help, they set off home. In the evening she looks forward to seeing her husband before he goes to work. The business they once ran now sold on, and he spends most nights driving a cab. “Its difficult, but he took up the cabs when I was in intensive care. This way he can take time off whenever we need him here, and sometimes he gets some interesting customers” she explains with a smile. A textbook example of what’s described as putting on a brave face. Routinely he arrives, makes them both tea, puts some music or a film on their portable DVD player, then they share headphones and appear content in their own company.

Afterwards they would talk. Once she calmly informed him that she would consent to a divorce. He adamantly refused. So they decide to confirm their marriage ‘in the eyes of the law’. The patients’ day room is closed. Hospital staff act as witnesses. Then all those not ‘nil by mouth’ are welcomed to join for cake.

“I don’t want to go to rehab” she declares. The consultant looks slightly perplexed. “My family want me to come home, I want to go, they will look after me”. True. After weeks of attempts at persuasion, during which she deteriorates further, the day arrives when the mother and husband pack up the belongings; the wedding photograph in an envelope inside a book. Her choice is respected. They know that all they have to do is call for assistance and we’ll easily arrange a transfer back. Undeterred with love abounding they follow the stretcher as it winds its way out of the hospital.

This post was contributed in the run-up to the Convention on Modern Liberty, of which you can find out more information here, purchase tickets (with group discount rates) here and submit long comments to these pages here.