A Weekend with Oscar Page 12

  “I had a party,” says Oscar. He turns to me when Mum doesn’t reply. “Can she hear me?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Keep talking, Oscar.”

  “I turned thirteen. Zara made me a cake.” Oscar lists the people who came to his party and talks about his birthday presents.

  Mum remains immobile. Now and again, I think I detect a flicker of an eyelid or the twitch of a limb, but it’s wishful thinking.

  “Give her time,” says Megan. “It can take a while.”

  “How long?” I ask.

  Megan sighs. “Everyone’s different. Some people never wake up. Some are in a coma for months and then wake up as soon as they hear a loved one’s voice. Sometimes, family members come in every day for weeks and weeks, and then one day, the patient wakes up, even though no one said or did anything different.”

  “But you think talking helps?”

  “Yes, I do. I think, at the unconscious level, something gets through.”

  I rub my eyes and Megan brings over another chair. I collapse into it and bury my head in my hands.

  “I know it’s not easy,” Megan says, “but you’ve found your mum. As far as talking to her goes, this is only Day One. Don’t give up, Jamie. You need to have hope. You need to stay strong.”

  I’m standing at the ICU’s main desk, answering questions, with Oscar fidgeting beside me. I’m able to supply some of the details requested: Mum’s full name and date of birth, her place of residence (eyebrows are raised when I mention Melbourne) and the name of our family doctor. After that, I’m not much use. I don’t know whether Mum has private health insurance, I’m clueless about her medical history and I can’t sign any of the forms because I’m under eighteen.

  “Who’s looking after you?”

  “I’m sixteen. I don’t need looking after.”

  “Who’s looking after him?” The stocky head nurse, or Matron, as Megan calls her, jerks her head towards Oscar.

  “We’re staying at my aunt’s house.”

  “Oh, good. Does she know you’ve found your mum?”

  “Not yet,” I say.

  “What’s her number? I’ll give her a call.”

  “I don’t have it,” I say.

  Raised eyebrows again.

  “And anyway, she won’t be home. I’ll let her know when I see her.”

  “Get her to come in as soon as possible. Someone needs to sign these forms.”

  Back at Aunt Selena’s, after I’ve made us baked beans on toast and Oscar has gone to bed, I research “comas” on the internet.

  Facts and figures are coming out of my ears. One thing I do know – it’s a depressing picture. Fewer than ten per cent of coma patients make full recoveries and doctors can’t “make” their patients wake up.

  But then I read that patients whose family members visited and spoke to them four times a day had a better chance of recovery than those who were left alone.

  Visiting Mum four times a day is something Oscar and I can do. I’m suddenly itching to be back at the hospital first thing in the morning.

  I text Zara: Found Mum. She’s in a coma.

  It still seems unbelievable. Surreal. I can’t talk about it. Not yet. I need to process it first. But it’s hard to wrap my head around what’s happened to Mum. Though I long to hear Zara’s voice, I’m just not ready to answer questions. I send her one more text before closing my eyes: G’night. Talk tomorrow xx

  The car screeches and loses control. I’m flung right out of it and I’m neck deep in water, struggling to breathe. I’m trying to keep my eyes open, certain I’ll drown if I fall asleep. I fall asleep anyway. When I wake up, I’m in hospital. The staff around me are discussing my funeral. They think I’m dead. Then one of them sees that I’ve opened my eyes. They carry me down, into the bowels of the hospital, into a dungeon. Oscar is in there, silently crying. I’m thrown inside and the door is locked. Now we’re both imprisoned. There’s no escape.

  It takes me a moment to remember where I am. We found Mum and she’s alive.

  Once again, I lock the door to Aunt Selena’s house from the inside and Oscar waits for me out front while I climb out the window. I wonder where Selena is. She couldn’t have known what happened to Mum.

  We’re at the hospital by ten. When we enter the ICU, Megan is there. She’s lifting Mum’s limbs, repositioning her in bed. “The physiotherapist just left,” she says. “She comes every morning, keeps Mum’s muscles working. We also move her every few hours to prevent bedsores.”

  I look for a chart at the end of the bed but don’t find one. “Do you write down any changes to her condition?”

  “We record her vitals straight onto an iPad.”

  “Daily?” I ask.

  “We check her every time we come in here.”

  “What’s her Glasgow Coma Score?” That’s something I read about last night.

  The nurse frowns. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I guess . . . I want to know her chances.”

  Gently, she brushes Mum’s hair off her face. “Listen, Jamie, forget statistics. In the long run, they don’t mean much.”

  “Really?”

  “Put it this way: if a patient with a twenty-five per cent chance of making a full recovery did make a full recovery, at the end of the day, that patient would be one hundred per cent recovered. The twenty-five per cent would no longer be relevant. Don’t think of your mum as a statistic. It isn’t helpful.”

  Megan moves off to tend to another patient and Oscar and I start talking to Mum.

  “I had sardines for breakfast again,” Oscar says. “And toast,” he adds.

  “Mum, I’m doing my best to look after him,” I say. “I promised I would.”

  “We don’t know where Selena is,” Oscar offers.

  I try to shush him before anyone hears. Luckily, the nurses aren’t within earshot and hopefully wouldn’t understand him if they were.

  But we’re not off the hook, because a minute later, Matron enters. “Where’s that aunt of yours?”

  “Didn’t she ring you?” I ask, the question deliberately misleading.

  “No, she did not.” Matron doesn’t sound pleased. “We really need her to sign those forms.”

  “She will when she’s free.”

  Matron narrows her eyes. “Are you sure she knows we’re waiting?”

  “Yes, of course.” The lie makes me uncomfortable, but I can’t afford to risk the truth.

  Oscar and I spend all day at the hospital, occasionally going down to the cafeteria for a drink, a sandwich, a snack.

  I don’t know what I should be saying to Mum, so I describe the food. I hope Megan was right and it doesn’t matter what I say. If it were me in a coma, I wouldn’t want to wake up if someone were tediously describing a sandwich.

  The next time we go down to the cafeteria for a hot chocolate, I check out the hospital gift shop. Inspiration strikes – we don’t have to bore Mum into an even deeper sleep with dull descriptions of cafeteria food; we can read to her instead.

  Among the pile of books on sale, I find a kid’s one called Jokes That Quack You Up. I buy it for Oscar to read to Mum. He’s pretty good at reading.

  Back in the ICU, I turn to the section on medical jokes. Oscar begins:

  Did you hear about the guy who lost his whole left side? He’s all right, now!

  I roll my eyes.

  I was scared to go to the eye doctor to get a pro . . . pro . . .

  “What does this say, Jamie?”

  “Procedure,” I say.

  I was scared to go to the eye doctor to get a pro . . . procedure done on my eyes. I nearly jumped out of my chair when the doctor fi . . . finished with the first eye and said: There, there, only one eye left.

  I groan at how unfunny the jokes are. Why would Mum wake up to hear jokes that even Dan wouldn’t laugh at?

  Oscar’s decided he’s had enough and hands the book to me.

  I continue reading where Oscar left off:

 
I won’t go to the doctor today – I don’t feel well enough.

  Doc, we have lost our patient. What happened? He recovered.

  Doctor to patient: There is no doubt – you have been poisoned. Patient: For goodness’ sake, with what? Doctor: Don’t worry, we’ll find that out during the autopsy.

  What idiot would buy this book? Well, me, obviously!

  I’m sick of the jokes. I want to have a proper conversation with Mum. I want to tell her how I feel. But with Oscar beside me and nurses coming in and out, the time’s never right. There’s no privacy here. And despite what I read last night about some coma patients being able to hear what people are saying, it feels silly talking to someone who’s fast asleep.

  Now and then, while we’re talking to Mum or reading her jokes, a nurse checks the bags, the one with the clear liquid solution and the one with the urine. Sometimes she adds more fluids to the transparent solution or unhooks one or other of the bags and replaces it with a new one. Sometimes, two nurses enter at once and together they move Mum’s limbs, turn her, fluff up her pillows and make sure she looks comfortable as they lie her back down.

  “Hello, young man,” a nurse says to Oscar.

  “I’m not a young man. I’m a boy,” says Oscar.

  Everyone is trying so hard to be kind and friendly. There’s a forced cheerfulness that reminds me of the teachers at school after my dad died.

  A wave of loneliness engulfs me and I’m drowning in it, even though Oscar is right beside me. Oscar loves unconditionally and never hides it, and I love him more than words can describe, but he’s a child. I can’t talk to him – not the way other boys talk to their brothers. Not about anything meaningful. And I can’t confide in him; he’s not capable of keeping secrets.

  I remember missing him one summer when he went to camp. And I know how much I’d miss him if he wasn’t here now. I put my arm around his shoulder and give it a squeeze. And though I’m glad I have Oscar, I’m desperate for someone I can really talk to, someone who would understand.

  The hospital is a world in itself, seemingly unconnected to the world outside it. Mum is both here and not here. Dan has his own battles to fight. And Zara feels so far away, she might as well be on another planet.

  “I want to leave,” says Oscar. It’s six o’clock and he’s had enough.

  Saying goodbye to Mum, promising to be back in the morning, already feels like a ritual. Spending the day here has quickly become our new routine.

  We leave the hospital the way we came in, down two different lifts and out through the main entrance on Wellington Street, the one nearest our bus stop. It’s getting dark and there’s a chill in the air. We’re wearing T-shirts and don’t have our windcheaters with us. Oscar shivers.

  Down the road, our bus is approaching. “Oscar, I’ll see if I can get the driver to wait.” Missing the bus will mean waiting at least twenty minutes till the next one – Iong enough for Oscar to catch a cold. I break into a sprint but seconds later, Oscar is screaming. I dash back to find out what’s wrong. He’s crying inconsolably – great wrenching sobs.

  The driver has seen me, but I wave him on. I’m trying to find out why Oscar’s upset, but he can be hard to understand at the best of times and this is not the best of times.

  “You ran away,” he finally manages to explain. “Why did you leave me?” Oscar sniffs and clutches my arm.

  “I didn’t leave you, Oscar. I was only trying to hold the bus.” I’ve done that before – but it’s different running for a bus in Melbourne, where Oscar is in his usual environment.

  “Were you scared?”

  He nods.

  Another thought occurs to me. “You didn’t think I’d get on that bus and drive off without you?”

  “I did,” he says.

  At least now I know what was going on inside his head.

  I pull him into a bear hug. “I wouldn’t do that, Oscar. I love you, bro.”

  Back at Selena’s, we eat spaghetti with sauce from a jar. Oscar is tired but compliant. I turn on the shower and make sure the water’s not too hot. He ignores the soap and shampoo, but I figure he’ll get clean enough with water alone.

  Once Oscar is asleep, I call Zara. It feels so good to hear her voice, but I’m more aware than ever of the distance between us.

  “I miss you.” And it’s true, I do. But what I mean to say is that despite the best efforts of the nurses, despite their friendliness, despite spending every day and night with Oscar, I’m lonelier than I’ve ever been.

  “Jamie, I miss you too.”

  The silence of longing travels the phone line.

  I wish she were here. I wish I could touch her, see her, hold her hand.

  “How long will you be there?” Zara asks.

  “I don’t know yet. I don’t have much money left. Just enough for our flights back to Melbourne and a few weeks of groceries.”

  “Maybe you should . . . Sorry, Jamie. Have to go.” Through the phone line, I hear Zara’s mum calling, asking for help.

  Zara hangs up before I have a chance to say goodbye. The conversation was just long enough to make me feel even more alone now that it’s over.

  I could have video called Zara through WhatsApp or Skype, but then I would have had to use mobile internet. I need to keep the little remaining credit for emergencies. But it would have been nice to see her, better than only hearing her voice.

  I’m tired but I know I won’t be able to sleep. I scan Selena’s bookshelves for something more engaging than a pathetic joke book. Mum likes quirky contemporary fiction or a good thriller.

  While I’m hunting for these, I come across a section of self-help and psychology books. There’s one called Man’s Search for Meaning and another called The Road Less Travelled. According to the blurb on the back, both books are about finding meaning in adverse circumstances. Both are old and are written by psychiatrists.

  But they make me wonder. Is Mum in a coma because she’s suffering? Because she’s given up? Should I read her something philosophical and meaningful that will give her a reason to live?

  But Mum’s life doesn’t lack meaning. It never did. “You kids are the most important thing in my life,” I remember her saying. “I was desperate to have you.”

  She also spoke about her work as a life coach. “It’s important to me. Maybe more so because it has nothing to do with you.” She explained that even most stay-at-home mums value the opportunity to occasionally wear a different hat. Oscar said, “You’re not wearing a hat.”

  I remember Mum laughing. “All I meant was, I like my work. There’s something very satisfying about helping others.”

  Mum wouldn’t think the answer lay in books. And I refuse to believe that she’s not waking up because she’s had enough. So, I don’t need to read her philosophy or psychology.

  I need to talk to her. I need to remind her of her life, of all that she’s missing. I don’t need props or topics of conversation like books or movies. All I need is to speak from the heart.

  At the hospital the following morning, Oscar’s got that darn joke book open again. Has he forgotten how lousy the jokes are?

  “Which bit should I read?”

  Mum likes hearing Oscar read. The meaningful conversation, or “monologue” I’ve been planning will, once again, have to wait.

  I flip to a page of medical riddles, which, like the jokes we read yesterday, seem somehow appropriate in a hospital setting. It will be easier for Oscar if we can share the reading.

  “Do you want to read the questions or the answers?” I ask.

  “The questions,” he says. We hold the book open between us. Oscar goes first.

  Oscar: When does a doctor get mad?

  Me: When he runs out of patients!

  Oscar: Why did the pillow go to the doctor?

  Me: He was feeling stuffed up!

  I don’t pause before reading the punchlines, because it’s not as if Mum is going to open her eyes and jump in with the answers.

 
Oscar: Where does a boat go when it’s sick?

  Me: To the dock!

  “Don’t mind me,” says Megan, coming in to check on Mum. “It’s good you’re reading to her. That’s a great idea.”

  Oscar: What did one tonsil say to the other tonsil?

  Me: Get dressed up, the doctor is taking us out!

  Megan laughs. Nice of her to pretend these riddles are actually funny.

  Oscar: Did you hear the one about the germ?

  Me: Never mind, I don’t want to spread it around.

  This ridiculous book is not out of place, because hospital wards are full of false cheer.

  In Hospital World, the population is split in two. There are the nurses and other staff who breeze in from the outside, bustling, cheerful and energetic, robust and healthy. Then there are the patients – broken in body – and the families who sit with them, glum and disheartened, broken in soul but hoping for a miracle, that the person they’re visiting will defeat the odds.

  I’m not sure my brother notices. He wants to continue reading riddles.

  Out of my peripheral vision, I see Matron talking to one of the nurses.

  “Come on, Oscar. Time for a break.” I’ve taken to disappearing whenever I see the bulky form of Matron in the distance. I don’t know how much longer I can make excuses for why my aunt still hasn’t been in to sign the forms. Luckily, Matron is busy most of the time, and when I see her walk in our direction, another member of staff almost always waylays her, and I take the opportunity to nick down the hall to the toilets, or to the cafeteria downstairs.

  By the time we get back to Aunt Selena’s, I’m so tired from a day spent dodging Matron and not talking to Mum that the thought of slipping into a coma myself is very tempting. I kick off my shoes and lie down on the couch.

  “Oscar, help yourself to a bowl of cereal.” I close my eyes.

  I wake to the feel of something soft and warm against my skin, which makes me realise I was getting cold. I open my eyes just wide enough to see Oscar draping a blanket over me, smoothing out the edges, making sure every part of me is covered up. And I’m amazed by this unexpected act of kindness. It’s a strange kind of role reversal. It warms me from the inside out, knowing that Oscar is looking after me, that he has once again shown himself to be more caring and capable than I’d given him credit for. I’m too tired to thank him, and the last thought I have before falling back asleep is that Mum would be pleased.