‘Well, if you’d listened at all to the presenter, a living will is a written statement of an individual’s wishes regarding medical treatment, in circumstances where they can’t give their opinion. In other words, in such a bad way they’d rather not be kept alive.’
She gulped the remains of her glass of wine, which had gone down way too quickly. ‘Do you have one?’
‘A living will? No.’
‘What about a normal will?’
‘Not yet. It’s one of those things I really need to do.’
‘We both should…I keep putting it off.’
He grinned. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘Hey, I’m organised, you know, and practical, but something about writing one gives me the heebie-jeebies.’
‘Real life, Lydia, real life.’ He took her glass and moments later returned with a refill and flopped down next to her again, an arm slung across the back of the sofa. ‘We’ll do it, together.’
It was one of those conversations that faded away with every sip of wine afterwards, each giggle, each feeling of normality and she hadn’t thought about the conversation since, preferring to focus on the approaching Christmas season, meet up with friends to talk about the possible closure of the local library and protests they’d been involved in, or share tips about cooking your first Christmas turkey and the best desserts for the big day.
But now, here she was in the hospital interview room and the subject had reared its ugly head again.
‘He hasn’t,’ Lydia told the consultant now, and went on to explain their recent conversation about perhaps making a living will. She wasn’t sure whether it was the right thing to do and didn’t look at Anita for fear she’d be condemned. But something told her she had to advocate for Theo. He couldn’t do it for himself after all.
‘I don’t see why we are talking about wills anyway.’ Anita stood and began pacing before Lydia could go into any more detail about what Theo had asked of her. ‘Theo’s alive. I want him to stay that way.’ She directed her question at the consultant. ‘Are you saying he’s not going to make it?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying at all, Mrs Morgan.’ He addressed her more formally, as though the difference might make her think rationally. ‘What we need to think about in these situations are the needs of the patient.’
‘He needs you to keep him alive!’ Anita’s voice reached a level too high for the confines of the small space and Lydia willed her to sit down so they could hear what the consultant had to say. Lydia often blinkered herself to situations, but she was practical too and liked to methodically go through the facts and information presented to her.
The consultant’s voice softened and he offered as many words of reassurance to Anita as he could. ‘In some cases, the patient has suffered such a devastating injury that it’s clear they won’t recover and so we discontinue care.’ He put a hand on Anita’s when she gasped. ‘In other cases, it’s the opposite end of the spectrum and it’s clear that the patient, with ongoing treatment, will have a good outcome.
‘For Theo,’ he went on, ‘he’s in between these two extremes. We really don’t know, at this stage, whether he can make a recovery or not. Any decisions we make are not nearly as clear as we would like them to be. So this is why we factor in all the information, including what Theo would want, what outcome would be acceptable for him in the long-term.’
Anita stood and faced the wall, her hands covering her mouth as though to stop her voice, her tears, her emotions. To stop the pain eating her up from the inside.
Lydia could see that Theo was in the best hands here, but call it too much experience interviewing reluctant subjects or too much time observing people and their behaviours, she was also able to read between the lines. ‘You’re asking what would Theo want in this situation?’ She put on her journalistic head, kept her calm, ignored her voice as it wavered, the tears that wanted to flow.
‘Yes.’ The consultant showed no emotion. ‘Right now we feel it’s too early to make any decisions, but as Theo’s family, you deserve to have all the facts and in turn, we need to understand more about Theo himself. You understand him the best, which is why we talk to you.’
When the consultant left them to ponder everything he’d said, Anita began pacing again. ‘How dare he? Who does he think he is?’ She was pointing to the closed door the consultant had already shut behind him on his way out. ‘He’s telling us to unplug Theo, my beautiful boy.’
And then the pacing stopped. Anita dropped to her knees as though she was about to pray, but head in her hands she sobbed her heart out and Lydia’s own heart almost broke in two, as Anita said Theo’s name over and over again.
When the door to the room opened, the man who came in looked as broken as his ex-wife. Theo’s dad, Graham, distraught and jet-lagged from the long flight all the way over from New Zealand, put his arms around Lydia and she wept. The feeling of security wrapped in his arms right now was the comfort she needed. Regardless of Theo’s history with his dad, Lydia had always liked Graham and got along with him.
She stayed and updated Graham on what was happening, and with only a few words to Anita, he went straight to see his son.
For the first time since the accident, Lydia had an almost physical urge to run. She wanted to get far, far away from the hospital, but she had no idea where to, because home was filled with reminders of Theo everywhere: clean socks balled in the laundry ready to be put away, his favourite mug hanging on the hook in the kitchen, the photographs of the both of them, a crumpled petrol receipt in her favourite lilac china bowl on the kitchen windowsill ready to take to work and claim for expenses, the scribbled chalk message on the blackboard in the kitchen that said ‘round two tonight?’ He must’ve written the message before he left for work that morning, after they’d made love in the lounge and it’d made her body tingle with longing when she’d seen it. She hadn’t rubbed it off since.
Lydia wanted to get away from the familiarity and reminders that could get at her whenever she let her guard down. It was like being trapped in a box, unable to get out, unable to run away from your thoughts and memories.
But she couldn’t. Theo needed her.
She came to her senses and made a cup of black coffee for Anita, persuaded the woman to get off the floor and sit in a chair and then handed it to her.
‘I’m sorry.’ Anita stared into the depths of the black liquid in the flimsy cup. ‘You don’t need me falling apart.’
‘No, I don’t.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Because we do need to discuss what the consultant said.’ Anita blew her nose. ‘We need to think about what Theo would want and Graham should be a part of the discussion too.’
