“Hey,” he says, struggling up into a sitting position. “You look like crap. What happened?”
He is rubbing his arm, which is undoubtedly sore from all the blood draws, and looking suspiciously at the IV.
Connie snaps into full alertness at the sound of his words, and we both jump up and go to his side. Connie kisses him and I check his temperature. We both have our own ways of showing affection, I suppose.
He tolerates her for a few moments, then bats her away with a floppy hand, telling her to leave him alone before he pukes in her hair.
“Aaah, he’s back!” she announces delightedly, clapping her palms together. “He’s being a twat, he must feel better!”
I see the hint of a grin play across his cracked lips, and decide she is right – he is most definitely feeling better. This doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods, but it is a very encouraging sign.
“How are you?” I ask. “How much do you remember?”
“Umm…not a lot. Being ill at home, feeling so bad I couldn’t even play Xbox. A few bits and pieces from being here. You talking to me like you were prepping me for an exam.”
I laugh, and the sound feels alien to me – there hasn’t been a lot to laugh about recently.
“Yes, well, I hope you were paying attention – if you were, you’ll have superb first-hand experience of IV insertion and lumbar punctures.”
“Ouch,” he replies, pulling a face. He is quiet for a moment, and asks: “What’s up with me anyway? And do you think it’ll count as work experience?”
This is greeted with far more hilarity than it deserves, and I know that we’re not just laughing because he’s funny – we’re laughing because we are relieved. Because he could have died. Because we have been sitting at his side for a very long time, lost in fear.
“You have meningitis,” I explain. “Bacterial. You’ve been on some super-duper drugs and it looks like they’re working. There’ll be more tests, and I wouldn’t book in any mountain climbing in the near future, but it looks like you’ll be okay.”
At this point the doctor arrives, obviously alerted by the sudden eruption of giggles in a usually silent room. He smiles at the sight of Dan up and talking, asks him a few questions, and then sends in a nurse to do more observations. She finishes up by looking at him critically, and declaring that it’s time for a wash.
Dan is, by this point, definitely feeling well enough to tell me and his mum to bugger off for a bit.
“If I’m going to be humiliated,” he says, waving his hands towards the door, “then I don’t want to do it in front of you.”
I meet Connie’s eyes, and see the sparkle of joy in them. She nods, and we reach an unspoken decision to leave him to it. We promise to be back soon, and make our way to the cafeteria.
We have both been here separately during our shifts, but naturally enough, I know nobody, and Connie seems to have made friends with all of the staff and a proportion of the customers.
“How’s he doing?” the cashier asks us as she rings up our drinks. “Any change?”
“Yes!” Connie declares gleefully. “He basically just told me to get lost!”
“Aaah, that’s wonderful news, love,” the woman says, patting her on the hand. “Onwards and upwards, eh?”
We find ourselves a corner seat with a window, so we can enjoy our view of the ongoing rain, and Connie flops down with a huge sigh of relief. I know it’s not just because of the view.
“How come these places are so tiring?” she asks, stirring sugar into her mug. “I mean, all we’ve been doing is sitting on our arses, but somehow I’m exhausted.”
“I know. It’s a weird effect hospitals can have. Somebody should probably do a study on it.”
She says she’s tired, and I can see that’s true, but she is also newly energised, and buzzing to tell Sophie the good news. I listen to her half of the conversation, and she puts her phone away. She sips her coffee, stares through the window, then abruptly bursts into tears.
It comes from nowhere – one minute she is fine, better than fine in fact, and the next she is a soggy, squelching mess. I dash over to her side and put my arms around her, and she weeps into my chest for a solid five minutes. Around us, people ebb and flow, casting sympathetic glances in our direction as Connie heaves her heart out.
Eventually, the sobs that are wracking her body slow, and then subside, and she finally comes up for air. Her face is smeared with strands of hair and snot, and she’s left a big damp patch on the front of my T-shirt. She points at it and laughs, and I roll my eyes.
“Look, it’s like the Turin Shroud!”
“And I didn’t think I could look any worse…” I mutter, as she dabs at me ineffectually with a napkin.
“You are a bit of a slob,” she replies, wrinkling her nose.
