At all.
Ever.
The morning drags on. I keep my anxiety at bay trying to figure out a solution to Aidan’s income issues, but when I fail to come up with anything useful, the flood gates open, and before long I’m pacing around like a caged animal.
Dr Farsi brings me my increased lithium prescription along with a new anti-depressant she wants me to try. “Fewer side effects,” she says. “But you cannotsuddenly stop taking it, Ludo. Call me if you feel like you might do something like that.”
She knows me so well, but the finality to our exchange makes me wonder if I’ll see her again before the surgeon boots me out, and new disquiet crackles in my already spiky brain. I’ve waited days for my magic pass out of here, but with Aidan in surgery, the thought of leavinghimis so terrifying my legs stop working.
I stagger to my bed and crawl onto it. No one has even mentioned discharging me, but my consciousness is so conditioned to jump into catastrophes that haven’t yet happened that I’m practically home already, hyperventilating on my lumpy old couch because I’ll never know if some bloke I barely know has made it out of surgery okay.
My breath comes too fast, and though the fever that came with my infection has faded, I’m hot all over. I strip my baggy hoodie and toss it as far away from me as I can. Cool air hits my skin and I welcome the chill that spreads through my body, willing it to extinguish the smouldering, irrational nerves in my gut.Think.But I can’t. Aidan has been gone for hours, and I’ve lost the ability to calculate if it’s logical for my stomach-churning anxiety to mean anything.
Someone brings me lunch. When I was first admitted, the nurses would check I ate every meal, but they’ve grown complacent in recent days—actually, since Aidan got here—and no one sees me dump the contents of my tray into the bin.
I curl up on my bed again, a crazed mantra playing on a loop in my head.He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.But the thing about baseless fear is that after a while, the trigger ceases to matter. There’s no connection to anything real. Just crippling terror. I jam my fist in my mouth and swallow a scream of frustration—at me, athim.It’s not fair. I don’t know Aidan. He doesn’t know me. And nothing about our week-long friendship deserves this level of angst.
Nothing does.
* * *
It’s mid-afternoon by the time I come full circle. Aidan still isn’t back, but no one has come to discharge me either, and my favourite nurse has let slip that my surgeon isn’t even here today.
My misguided red alert fades from razor sharp to a butter knife. As ever, I find it hard to reconcile with how dramatic my imagination can be. I’ve spent days at peak levels of anxiety... weeks. One time, I bit my nails so bad it took months to grow them back. Dr Farsi says anxiety is part of my bipolar, but I’m not always convinced. Today is neither yellow nor black, but a heady mix of colours that don’t stay still long enough for me to decipher.
Dinner comes. I’m still not hungry, but I eat this time. I have to if I have any hope of not being a juddering wreck when Aidan comes back. When I’m done, I sit on the edge of my bed, breathing slowly, deliberately, and counting the stains on the floor to kill time. Aidan has been gone for eight hours. Selfish, irrational panic is replaced by genuine concern, but I force myself not to pace the ward. The old gents Aidan and I share our space with are settling down for the evening. I don’t want to disturb them.
Or maybe it’s that I can’t face the empty bay where his bed should be.
Whatever.
I go back to ruminating over his money problems, and sometime after my dinner tray is collected, I have an epiphany.
My phone is dead and buried at the bottom of my bag. I dig it out and plug it into my portable charger. In my contacts list, I find the number for the employment adviser who handles my disability benefits and copy it onto a page I tear out of my empty journal. On its own it doesn’t mean much, so I scrawl a note on the other side.
Aidan,
This lady helped me get a job and keep my house. Her name is Rachel.
Ludo
I fold the piece of paper into a perfect triangle and slide off my bed.I can leave it on his table.It’s the most sensible idea I’ve had in weeks.
Adrenaline pumping, I yank socks onto my bare feet, tuck my aching arm into the sling I keep forgetting to use, and set off for Aidan’s bed bay, all the while bracing myself for confirmation that hestill isn’t there.
But as I get closer to Aidan’s faraway corner, I realise that my pep talks have been for nothing. There is no empty space.
Aidan is back.
Eight
Aidan
Ever since I woke up in this damn-fucking place, confusion and pain have been my constant companions, but as I open my eyes and see Ludo heading towards me, somehow, he grounds me. The confusion is gone.
Shame I can’t say the same for the pain. It’severywhere, as though the surgeon has taken a hammer to every joint in my body because drilling into my knee and thigh wasn’t enough. Only the anti-emetic I begged for in recovery is stopping me vomiting all over myself. I can’t deny it—I’m a fucking wreck.
Ludo ghosts around my curtain. He tucks something into my drawer and then his gaze settles on me, piercing and yet comforting. I want him to look at me for as long as possible so I can look at him.
