My Day with Cornelius

I woke in fright, that morning in May. I think it was morning but now as I try to remember that moment, I can’t be sure. The space was timeless, the fluorescent green light remorseless. Harsh and artificial, beaming from the other end of the room, reflecting off the floor. What was that strange light? One thing I knew for sure, I wasn’t in my bedroom. Beyond a gap in a faded curtain, I watched an army of stormtroopers as they busied themselves. White hazmat suits, tightly bound masks, plastic face guards, long blue rubber gloves. No faces, no cheekbones, no freckles, no smiles. Just eyes. An icy sweat began to trickle down the back of my neck. What the hell happened to me?

“Welcome back,” serious brown eyes with extremely thick eyebrows emerged from behind me. “Do you know where you are?” Brown eyes moved closer. He smelt clean. Anti-bacterial blended with mandarin and vanilla. He smelt like my husband, like Tommie minus the anti-bacterial.

“No,” I whispered, not recognising my own raspy tones.

“You’re at the Alfred in Melbourne, you had COVID-19”.

A sudden flashback.

“We are hearing reports of a novel SARS-like virus causing a virulent strain of pneumonia in China,” the blonde Sky News Presenter announced.

Squeak, squelch, squeak, rubber gliding on vinyl brought me back, a trolley floated past.

“You’ve been in a coma for two months,” brown eyes said.

Two months? Two chances at IVF down the fucking drain. A sharp familiar pain started to nest deep in my gut. One that had planted its seeds long before this illness. It didn’t take it long to return.

Brown Eyes pulled a chair closer and sat down. He leaned in. I was back in confession. There was something priestlike in the way he whispered softly in my ear.

“I know, it’s not going to be easy for you to hear this. You’ve missed a lot,” he said. “The world has changed. I don’t know if it will ever be the same again.” He raised his blue rubber fingers and started to count. “Social distancing, curfews, riots, food shortages have all been happening while you were under. Even Loo roll wars!

What the fuck, a loo roll war, is that even a thing?

“I know it’s crazy and while all this has been happening outside, you’ve been fighting your own war here in this bed, inside your body.” He placed his hand on my arm and squeezed gently. “Your lungs and kidneys failed. We had to intubate you. Do you remember that?”

I shook my head.

“You’ve done so well, you fought off dangerous sepsis, we’re still managing DVTs, and we will probably have to start dialysis if your kidneys don’t kick in over the next few hours.”

I struggled to follow the conversation but didn’t let on.

I shuddered. It brought me back to fancy Doctor Cunningham’s rooms. “Saoirse, I’m afraid the tests are conclusive we can’t see you conceiving naturally,” he said, detached from the significance of his message. Each word a bullet piercing my dreams and here I am again fending off bullets.

Brown eyes appeared to sense my distress. “You’ve done really, really well. You’re a fighter!!” He patted the top of my head.

The flimsy curtain moved, then snagged as it scratched along its rail. The green light became brighter and reflected off a shiny bald head as it entered the gap. Brown eyes stood up.

“Let me introduce you to Cornelius O’Toole, your nurse, he’s been taking great care of you while you’ve slept. Cornelius meet hmm, sha, sha.” Brown Eyes hesitated.

Cornelius interrupted before he could finish the introduction. “It’s pronounced sear sha.” Tiny smile lines contracted in the corners of a pair of hazel eyes. I imagined a warm beaming smile under his mask. “I’m Irish too.”

Doctor Contalia please report to Radiology.

“Well, that’s me.” Brown eyes yanked at the stubborn curtain as he made his exit. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

“Well, you’ve been in the wars lovely but it’s so good to see you awake.” Cornelius shook his head and with that I felt safe, at ease.

“I love your name,” I said, “Cornelius, it doesn’t sound very Irish.”

“Yeah! I blame my parents, great name choice for a shy queer kid growing up in Athlone.”

Knowing Athlone, the irony wasn’t lost on me. Cornelius put two firm reassuring hands on my forehead and shoulder.

“I’ll be taking care of you for the day. Now let’s get you comfortable.” He gently pulled the pillows from under my head. He raised one pillow at a time and shook them with such gusto they roared like sails catching wind.

“You know, I went to Uni with someone from Athlone, his name was Seamus McCabe. Would you know him?” I asked the customary question. When the Irish are far from home there seems to be a burning need to prove that we’re just one degree of separation from each other. Maybe it’s the way we are wired or just a little bit of homesickness, a need for connection thousands of miles away.

“I know him well, he went to school with my brother,” he said as he picked up a plastic jug and filled a glass with water. “Ya know,” he said, “I feel like I know you. I’ve sat here and talked to you most days. I’ve met most of your family over the phone. I don’t think poor old Tommie has slept a wink since you got here, he calls at all hours of the morning,” he said, shaking his head. “And then there’s your mother, she’s an absolute rebel.”

“Well, she’s an ICU nurse, what do you expect?” I winked again. “Tell me what she’s done now?” I asked, nervous to hear my mother’s latest escapade.

“She’s breaking restrictions and driving to the Basilica at Knock every day. She’s organised an intervention from Our Lady. Apparently, there’s so many candles burning all over County Mayo for you that you can see them from the moon.” He tried not very successfully to mimic my mother.

I loved this, my first normal conversation, well a normal Irish conversation. It made me smile. I thought of Tommie. The green light seemed less menacing and somehow softened. It seemed to fit.

“Now let’s freshen you up,” he said with vigour as he untucked the tight cotton sheets that bound me. To my horror he then began to raise my gown. As I lay there exposed, a Christmas turkey ready for stuffing he pulled a blood-soaked nappy from between my legs, a bloody nappy, there it hung swinging in the breeze. My back stiffened.

“Oh darling, please don’t be embarrassed. You’ve been menstruating heavily with the doses of Heparin, an anti-coagulant we’ve been giving you.” He shook his head. “Bleeding and clotting, then clotting and bleeding, this has been our challenge with COVID.” He gently touched my hand.

Somehow the words, "clotting and bleeding" penetrated the protective walls I had managed to erect. Fear flooded into every cell. Lung failure, DVTs, kidney failure, they swarmed like bees in my head. A cold shiver rose from the tips of my toes. My breath quickened. I felt like a dying fish gasping for air through flapping gills. I started to sob.

“Oh sweetheart, it’s going to be ok, just slow it down, look at me,” he said as he gently guided my chin back towards his face. “Now, big breath in.”

I followed his instructions. Finally, I could feel my heart rate slow. The blood returned like little ants tingling in all my extremities. Each exhalation seemed to push the panic gently away.

“Thank you,” I said. I had a sudden urge, a need for more connection. “Can I see your face?” I asked sheepishly. He looked around the ward. No one could see. He pulled up his face guard and pulled his mask below his chin. He smiled. It was beautiful, it was a kind face. He quickly pulled the mask back up and the face guard down. My eyes felt heavy, for the first time since I woke. I felt like I might sleep. I started to drift.

*********************************************************************

I’m not sure how long I slept it might have been minutes or maybe hours. Cornelius was there by my bedside when I woke.

“Welcome back,” he said. His eye lids looked heavy; the light seemed to be bothering him. He seemed more subdued.

“You look tired,” I said. Immediately wondering if that was a bit too familiar. I’d only just met him a few hours ago after all. He blinked again.

“It’s grief,” he answered. He stood up briskly. He looked distracted as he began to mount a heparin infusion to my IV pole. His eyes squinted as he studied the small print on the transparent tiny vial. Then he sat next to my bed again. He sighed and shifted uneasily in the chair. He started to massage his gloved hand.

“I’m getting really bad cramps lately,” he said, talking to his glove. Then a dam burst. It was his turn to gush. “My role has changed lately, and it’s made it really tough. This visitor ban means I’ve become a conduit for grief. I hold mobile phones, bearing witness to pleas, to goodbyes, to secrets. Things I should never hear. Not everyone wakes up like you, ya know.” He shook his head and told me about his last shift. He held a mobile to a dying child so his mother could say goodbye.

“I can still hear her cries echoing from the device. She pleaded. She begged him to live. She said, ‘you are my baby, darling. I love you so, so much. Then finally accepting the inevitable, she sang to him, a sad sad song, hush little baby, don’t say a word.” He paused. “She had to watch her 17-year-old die before her eyes on FaceTime, while I had to ignore the piercing pain in my cramping hand.”

The lump was back, wedged in my throat. What kind of dystopian universe had I woken into?

“Now, where was I?” Cornelius suddenly jumped up pushing the chair behind him. He shook himself off. I imagined a pink blush rise across his cheeks under his mask. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m not sure what’s come over me, you don’t need to hear this.” He moved quickly and lifted a canula as if to inspect it. The movement initiated a deep throbbing pain in my lower abdomen. I touched it. So tender - I could feel a mass starting to grow to bulge.

“My tummy feels really sore Cornelius, can you feel that lump?” Cornelius dropped the canula and came closer to investigate. He lifted my blankets and examined my stomach. The pressure inside me was growing. A torturer was screwing a metal vice, gripping my abdomen tighter and tighter in its claws. Then it burst, the pressure released, a flood of warm liquid gushed between my legs.

Cornelius’ pupils started to dilate. It looked like his panic was rising in harmony with mine. He quickly disconnected the feed from the IV. He pressed the alarm button next to my bed.

“You’re haemorrhaging, it looks like the anticoagulation dosage isn’t right”.

“What does that mean, is it serious?” I asked, feeling uneasy as I saw the warmth evaporate from Cornelius’ eyes.

“I’m not sure. I’m really not sure. Help will be here shortly. “

I felt my blood drain. I struggled to keep my eyes open. Words started to swim.

“Cornelius, what have you done?” someone asked.

“I think I gave 10ccs not 5”

“Prepare theatre stat!”

Then those words. “Emergency hysterectomy.”

"No!" I screamed quietly. I began floating moving towards the light. A green EXIT sign beamed above me as automatic doors whooshed open. Ah, it was an Exit sign all this time. Then complete darkness.