A momentary look of shock flickers across his face, replaced immediately by one of supreme sympathy. He keeps my hand held tight in his, and asks, ‘I presume you didn’t know?’
‘No. And now I’m not pregnant any more, so I don’t know if it even matters.’
‘It matters. It does. Whatever you’re feeling right now, it’s fine to feel it.’
‘That’s the thing,’ I say, turning away from him and looking down again at the magical city below. ‘I don’t know what I feel. I found out about Harry, then I found out about the baby, and now I’m all over the place. I feel everything, and I feel nothing.
‘I feel … bereaved. I feel a bit like I did when my dad died, but I also feel angry with myself about that. There isn’t anything to grieve, not really. It was only a tiny blob of cells, it wasn’t really a baby, I never even knew it existed until after it was gone. If the doctor hadn’t told me, I never would have known.
‘There are people in this hospital who have suffered real loss. The old lady in my room hasn’t spoken since her husband died. Two of the Australian girls won’t be going home. Harry is … the way he is. So … I don’t feel entitled to any grief. It feels … indulgent. Selfish.’
‘Grief isn’t something you earn, Elena, you know that,’ he replies, his voice quiet but firm. ‘There is no hierarchy. You might not have planned it, you might not have known, but it is a loss all the same. Don’t begrudge yourself the chance to feel that.’
Maybe he’s right, I think. Maybe in ordinary circumstances that is what I would do. I would cry, and grieve, and let the full weight of loss fall upon me. I would talk to Harry, and maybe to my mum, and perhaps to a counsellor. It would make me think about children, and the role they play in my life.
But these are not ordinary circumstances and my feelings are all over the place. I was considering leaving Harry, not having a baby with him. How would I have coped? Would I have really even wanted a baby, if I’m honest? There is an unreal amount of guilt attached to that particular issue, which I don’t feel quite up to shouldering.
Maybe I just need to move on. This happens to millions of women. To better women than me. Women who already loved their child. Women who desperately wanted them, yearned for them. Somehow, they carry on.
There is emptiness inside me, clawing away at me, a hollow space. There is so much to think about. Harry is in a coma. He may be paralysed. Our lives have just become a mass of possible outcomes, a labyrinth of uncertainties. And still … still the pain is there, hiding amid the guilt and worry, peeking around corners. Pain I don’t feel I deserve.
‘I don’t know why I feel like this,’ I say, letting the tears come, rolling slowly down my cheeks. ‘Who knows what was going to happen with me and Harry? I was thinking of running off into the sunset and starting a new life. A baby would have changed all of that. It would have made everything complicated. Part of me even thinks I should be relieved, but I can’t find that anywhere in me. Or maybe I can, a tiny bit, and that’s making me feel even worse …’
‘Elena, there are no rules here. Just because it wasn’t deliberate doesn’t mean it would have been wrong. And just because it would have been complicated doesn’t mean you can’t be sad. It’s hard. So hard. Nobody should have to deal with all of this.’
‘That goes for all of us, though, doesn’t it? You and Anna. Harry’s parents down there, worried sick, because he’s their baby, isn’t he? No matter how old he is, he’s still their baby, and they’re watching him suffer. And my mum – God, I really must phone her – she’ll be in pieces as well. There is plenty of pain to go around, it seems.’
He is silent, and I know he can’t disagree. He has had more than his share.
‘I know. The world feels very cruel sometimes. Have you told them about the baby, his parents? Will you tell him, when he’s awake?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I reply. ‘I’ve been thinking about that myself, and it’s very difficult. I’ve really only just found out myself, and my instincts are to definitely not tell his parents. He should know first, and goodness knows when that might be. I don’t know when he will wake up, or how he will feel, or if he’ll be strong enough to deal with anything other than getting through each day. I don’t even know if it’s fair to tell him – to add to his suffering when I don’t need to.’
‘Maybe you do need to, though,’ he says. ‘Maybe, when the time is right, you need to talk to him about it, and maybe you both need to have the chance to grieve together.’
I nod, and know that he might be right. It is – was – Harry’s baby too.
‘Possibly. I think this whole situation is impossible to predict. But … not his mum and dad. I won’t tell them. They have too much to deal with already. I have to try and help them through it, no matter what happens in the long term. Neither of us is going to be the same person as we were when this is over, are we, me and Harry? This … just adds to an already horrible situation.’
The sun is finally setting over the city, a deep orange globe; the evening air still warm, the noise from below reaching us even all these storeys high. It feels oddly peaceful, despite the sound of the traffic and the wailing of sirens arriving at the hospital. Like we’re held apart from it all.
We sit, our clasped hands draped between the chairs, and watch as night falls, purple and bruised.
‘Just remember,’ he says, after a few moments’ shared silence, ‘that I’m here. You’re not alone. And I’ll be here for as long as you need me.’
Chapter 11
Two days later, the doctors tell us that Harry is stable enough to be taken off the drugs that are keeping him comatose. That his brain has recovered, that he is ready to come back to us. That he is ready to leave his artificial hibernation.
It is good news, but I am not sure he will see it that way, when he finds out what his new reality is.
I am sitting by his side, holding his hand, his parents behind me.
‘They’re doing it in the morning,’ says Linda, the fatigue dripping from every word. ‘They’ll reduce the drugs and see how he reacts, but they don’t think there’ll be any problems.’
We all stay silent, knowing that there will be problems. That there will be many problems, of different shades and stripes – and that thinking too far ahead would be foolish.
John has been busy doing things – coping the best way he knows how. Researching spinal injuries, talking to doctors in the UK, finding out what ‘the very best’ in treatment will look like. He has found a clinic that offers hope – and that also costs thousands, over a period of time that refuses to be pinned down.
