Lifesaving for Beginners

operating theatre without being in the way.
    Thomas and I stay where we are.
    We don’t say much. Having him here, in the room, squashed into the narrow chair beside mine, isn’t strange. I suppose it should be, when you consider everything. But it isn’t. It’s a comfort. Like the embers of a fire on a hard day in November. It’s almost as though I think that, once Thomas is here, nothing bad will happen. Nothing bad will happen to Ed.
    Time somehow passes. I don’t know if it’s a lot of time or a little but it passes all the same. I don’t think about anything in particular. If pressed, I’d say I’m thinking about Ed but I couldn’t tell you for sure.
    Thomas sits so still, you’d be forgiven for thinking he is asleep. He has a capacity for stillness that is rare, especially in someone so long. His legs stick out in front of him, providing an impediment – and almost certainly a tripping hazard – to anyone entering the room. I used to trip over them in the beginning. Then I got wise and commanded him to ‘call them home’ before he got a chance to fling them around the place.
    Later, Thomas gets me a coffee. Not one from the machine. He goes to the deli on the corner to get it. A decaf-cappuccino with skimmed milk, one and a half sachets of Demerara sugar and a light dusting of chocolate powder on the top. It’s perfect. It’s definitely the best thing that’s happened all day. Maybe even longer than that.
    I don’t tell him that. Instead I say, ‘Thank you.’
    This part of the hospital is quiet. There is something unnatural about the quiet. As if the world is holding its breath. Waiting for the bad news. Or the good, I suppose.
    I think about bargaining. And then I dismiss the idea as ridiculous. And then I go right ahead and bargain anyway.
    With whom, I couldn’t say.
    ‘If you make sure Ed is OK, I won’t drink for a month.’
    Nothing.
    ‘OK, two months, then . . . Fine. Three . . . What the hell, I won’t touch a drop for the whole bloody year. I’ll be a . . . whatdyacallem . . . a teetotaller. For a year. Twelve months. So long as Ed is perfectly fine. He has to be one hundred per cent perfect or the deal’s off.’
    Thomas looks at me. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘You did. You said something.’
    ‘No, I didn’t.’
    ‘You did. Something about a deal.’
    ‘I didn’t.’
    We go back to being quiet again.
    A face appears round the door and I jump. It’s not a particularly horrific face. It’s a perfectly acceptable, round little face, with spectacles and worry lines where spectacles and worry lines have every right to be. It’s just that, curled as it is round the door, it looks a little disembodied.
    ‘Katherine? Katherine Kavanagh?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’m Dr Collins, the cardiologist. I’ve just spoken to your parents. They’re in with Edward. They asked me to come and find you.’
    ‘He’s out of theatre?’ I stand up so fast the chair topples backwards. Thomas stands up too, puts his hand on my shoulder and says, ‘Steady,’ in the same tone he uses on his goat when the goose gets her goat up and she goes on one of her sunflower-fuelled rampages.
    I put both hands on my face. The tips of my fingers are cold, despite the dense heat of the waiting room.
    I say, ‘How is he?’ Thomas stands beside me.
    ‘Edward presented with an acute arrhythmia, very probably brought on by his congenital heart condition, which doubtless was the cause of his collapse and loss of consciousness.’
    I say, ‘How is he? Is he OK?’
    ‘We performed a procedure whereby we inserted a catheter in through the leg and up into his heart, through his vascular supply, and in this way we’ve been able to put a patch over the orifice that appears to have . . .’
    I study the man’s face but I can tell nothing from it. It is the most impassive face I have ever seen. I say, ‘Just tell me how he is, for the love of God.’
    He nods and allows a curt smile to glance across his face. He is obviously used to dealing with unpleasant people. ‘Given the severity of the arrhythmia, we felt it prudent to insert a pacemaker into Ed’s heart, but this is a precautionary measure. On the whole, I believe that the procedure went well. There were no complications and . . . ’
    I look at his mouth and it’s still moving so he’s still talking but I’m not listening anymore.
    He said ‘well’.
    He said, ‘The procedure went well.’
    I have the most curious sensation. As