Meeting Mungo Thunk by Keith A Pearson

Author:Keith A Pearson [Pearson, Keith A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CrestaPress Publishing
Published: 2018-07-05T05:00:00+00:00

26.

Comfortable: a well-worn pair of pants, or when a football team wins by a four goal margin. It isn’t, however, a word I’d use to describe the intensive care waiting room. In fairness, it’s not so much the utilitarian furniture or the cheerless beige walls that make it an uncomfortable place to be, but the reason we’re there.

There is no comfort to be found in waiting for news which, quite literally, could mean life or death for my dad.

The only small mercy is that Ethan left after twenty minutes, and Kate’s reaction was one of relief as much as irritation. Rather than the support he was supposed to offer, he seemed far more concerned about telling his guests they’d have to get their Pinot Grigio and polite conversation elsewhere this evening. Prick.

Another check of the watch and over an hour spent. Strained doesn’t even come close to describing the atmosphere.

We’ve all made attempts at appearing positive, and we’ve all nodded and swapped thin smiles in reply. I don’t think I even believed my own words, let alone those delivered so unconvincingly by Kate: Dad’s a fighter, he’s in good hands, it could be nothing—we all know we’re still here because something is seriously wrong. They don’t usually commit patients to intensive care for a gippy stomach.

Just as we pass the ninety minute mark the door finally opens and Dr Rowe bustles in.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” he remarks, as if the protracted waiting time is our primary concern.

“I have some news.”

He leans against the wall in a manner inappropriately casual for the situation.

“Mr Maxwell has suffered an ischaemic stroke.”

The three of us, still seated on a lumpy sofa, look up at him. The first word might as well have been in Welsh, but the second word needs no explanation.

“A stroke?” Kate clarifies.

“Yes, and I’m afraid to say it was severe.”

“It was definitely a stroke?” I ask.

Perhaps not the most sensible of questions. What was I expecting: the doctor to hurry away and interrogate his colleagues because I questioned their prognosis?

“Um, sorry,” I splutter. “I mean, isn’t it obvious when someone is suffering from a stroke? I’ve seen the adverts on TV about the warning signs.”

“Usually, yes, but not always. And if the stroke is severe enough, as it was in your father’s case, the victim can become unconscious in a matter of seconds.”

That’s twice he’s used the word severe and in my experience, no type of severe anything is good.

“So how is he now?”

“My colleagues are administering treatment in the ICU but he remains unresponsive.”

“Unresponsive?” Kate parrots, as if repeating the doctor’s words make them any less unpalatable.

“Put simply, he’s in a coma.”

A simple four-letter word but it prompts an audible gasp from my mother.

“Oh, dear God,” she gulps. “He’ll be okay won’t he?”

Perhaps unsure if the question was aimed at him or some imaginary deity, the doctor pauses before answering.

“I wish I could give you some assurance, Mrs Maxwell, but with a stroke of this magnitude there’s really no telling.

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