This is one of two ideas that just will not leave me alone. I hope that it is ok :-)
It is with a sigh of defeat that Emma finds herself rolling out of bed, the clock on the table tormenting her with the knowledge that it is 2:33am; a time when she should still be fast asleep. She hasn't been sleeping properly for weeks; her body waking her in the small hours and then allowing her to slip back in to her dream world just before her alarm sounds crash in to her consciousness. She has presumed it is the start of menopause, that she is headed towards night sweats. It was only a matter of time before it happened, and this time it would continue without interruption.
It had taken her weeks after Howard's death, and the miscarriage, for her sleeping pattern to return to anything remotely normal. A double bed had felt cold and empty without Howard's body by her side, though she had spent so few nights with it there. Still her body expected it. That was how their lives were meant to play out; they would fall asleep nestled against the other each night, and wake together the next morning. They would have taken turns to slip for the warm cocoon of the duvet to see to their baby, though he would have to wake her to provide the feeds. Still she could imagine him sat up beside her, talking through his plans and strategies as she tried not to fall back to sleep with the baby against her chest. She has thought of this scenario often, it slips unbidden in to her dreams and causes her to wake hopeful that it will come to pass. It is then that the crushing reality will hit her, and she is faced once more with the pain.
It is those few seconds on waking that are the worst. The ones where she can almost feel the warmth of his body beside her, or hear the sound of him moving around the bedroom. She can in those moments almost feel her body shape changed by their child's growth. She has woken to find her hands against her abdomen, and felt a momentary panic when she couldn't feel the swell of a gravid uterus. She had swallowed back a strangled cry when she had realised it was her mind playing tricks on her; that she hasn't been pregnant for nigh on 23 weeks.
Now though it wasn't the cruelty of her own mind working against her, or the cold space in the bed that led to her being so awake at this hour. Nor was she working up a sweat and cursing her body. Sleep had not been forthcoming at all that night. She had hoped that slipping beneath the covers would convince her body to rest, but she had lain awake; occasionally shooting a glance at the clock confused at the strange passage of time.
She had not felt right for the last two days, but there was nothing remarkable about her symptoms. Niamh had made a passing remarking about her pallor, which Mrs Tembe had helpfully agreed with. They had muttered something about there being a lot around this time of year as though that would make this better. But she couldn't even put it down to one of the many illness that had seen her patient load increase dramatically over the last two weeks. She was just run down that was all; the lack of sleep a high contributing factor.
She slips as quietly as she can from her bedroom. There is no point in disturbing the girls from their slumbers. She doesn't know what she would have done without them over the last few months. But she does not want to bother them any more than she has too. She shouldn't have too now, not when so long as passed. That is what people think when they see her still not fully functioning; it is not as though she lost a husband, or even a partner – for their relationship was in such an early stage; but they didn't know the truth. They didn't understand that she had lost a child as well, and with that an entire future had slipped through her fingers. There were times when she had felt like screaming but she had always held herself back, trying to keep behind the carefully composed façade.
As quietly as she can manage, she starts to make herself a cup of tea. Outside she can just about making out the shapes of trees being thrashed around by the wind, while the window is dappled by rain. Perhaps she can blame the raging storm outside for her lack of sleep. By the time the kettle has boiled, and she has poured the steaming liquid in to the cup, she cannot face the drink. How many cups of tea has she swallowed since Howard's death? It seemed to be everyone's cure for all that happened. Nothing could be done without a cup in hand. She wasn't even all that fond of tea. She preferred coffee, but that had been out of the question when she was pregnant. Even after, they had given her tea instead. Even now.
Not that she would have been able to face coffee right now. She had always liked the smell in the past. There was something comforting about it. When she'd been pregnant with Chris, she had craved it; not the drink itself but the smell of a freshly brewed cup of strong black coffee. Now though, she finds herself swallowing hard when faced with it. The girls had definitely noticed. They didn't seem to rely quite so heavily on the drink to get them going in to morning; or perhaps they were leaving it until they were safely at work. Not that they should have to adjust everything for her.
Frowning she settled herself at the table. She wasn't even sure how long she'd been up, nor does she have any desire to look at the clock. Her eyes fall on the wall calendar. It is all together possible that this is her body's build up to her next period. They've been erratic since the baby and she cannot quite bring to mind when the last one was. Not that its matters really, not now.
Her eyes bore in to the calendar, scanning each little box until her gaze comes to stop on one date. She wishes she could rip it away; as though tearing it from that page would prevent her having to live through it. The day her baby should have been born. It was emblazoned in her mind. Saturday 16th April 2016. Saturday's child. Her mind scans through the old rhyme – Saturday's child works hard for a living. That sounds so like a child of her and Howard. She can almost imagine a child so like a miniature version of Howard, playing office while the proud father watched on. Howard would have adored their child. He had adored them.
It was so unfair. She shouldn't have had to bury Howard, or face the loss of her child. She'd been so single minded in her determination to carry on as normal. She'd ignored Ruhma's attempts to counsel her, nor did she ever return for the follow up she was supposed to have. She was a doctor. She knew without being told by another professional that it was over. Instead she had tried to keep going. The girls had tried to get her to open up; to talk through her feelings. But she couldn't. It wasn't her way.
"Are you alright?" Startling slightly, Emma looks up to find a rather bleary eyed Niamh standing in the doorway, a dressing gown wrapped tightly around her body in an attempt to block out the winter chill.
"I'm fine," It is her stock answer. One that she is able to deliver with conviction, even when she is feeling anything but. If she answered truthfully, she is certain she'd shatter in to a million pieces; and really nobody wanted to know the truth. They just wanted the reassurance that she was fine so that they could move on. It was a duty to ask, "What're you doing up?" A quick glance towards the window, tells Emma that it is still the small hours of the morning.
"I could ask you the same question," but Niamh doesn't need to ask. She knows that Emma hasn't been sleeping properly. It's written in her face, no matter how hard she tries to disguise it. They don't acknowledge it, "I couldn't sleep," Emma knows that the younger doctor is lying, but what right does she have to question when she lies so much herself.
"You don't have to stay up with me," It's a Saturday. For once Niamh doesn't have to have her alarm set, and Emma doesn't want her to lose out on a decent night's sleep on her account. But Niamh simply shakes her head, and moves further in to the room, heading towards the kettle to make a drink. Chances are she'll make one for each of them.
"Like I said I couldn't sleep," Niamh keeps her back to Emma as she works on making the drinks, "But don't feel you have to stay up with me either," She speaks softly. Although she has barely said it, Emma doesn't know what she would have done without the younger doctor. She had almost mothered her in the early days, trying to make sure that she ate and drank. She did it without being asked, and for very little thanks. She had put up with the worst sides of Emma without complaint, and even now is making sacrifices.
The next thing Emma knows, Niamh is placing a mug down in front of her. Steam spiralling in to the air. Slowly she wraps her hands around it, trying to pull some of the warmth in to her own body but it has no affect. She can't remember ever having felt this cold. But she is not really cold. Her body temperature keeps fluctuating, to the point where she isn't certain what she is. She raises the mug and takes a careful sip. Almost instantly she regrets it, rather hastily placing the mug back down she closes her eyes in an attempt to fight against the nausea.
"Emma," she feels Niamh's hand come to rest on top of hers, but she is too busy trying to stop her body reacting to the tiny amount of liquid she had ingested. She is all too aware that she makes a terrible patient, and she has no desire to put Niamh in the position of having to care for her, any more than she already has. In those few weeks when she had been plagued by pregnancy symptoms, Niamh had covered for her. She'd been sympathetic in the mornings when she'd find herself trapped in the bathroom, leaving the girls waiting. It is enough that even now Niamh seems to have taken it upon herself to provide her with proper meals; even though her diet has improved immeasurably. Not that she should be thinking about food right now.
"I'm just not feeling great," She finally manages to say the words. She doesn't fully understand why the small sip of tea had nearly sent her in the direction of the toilet. She's been nauseous on and off, but she hasn't come so close to vomiting. And last night she had struggled to eat the meal Niamh had prepared, but she hadn't felt sick exactly. She just didn't feel that she could eat anything more than she did. It's probably just her fluctuating hormone levels trying to sort themselves out.
"Why don't we put a film on, laze about for a bit," Niamh doesn't even wait for her to answer, before she starts to move. By the time Emma has managed to persuade her protesting body to stand up and walk, the younger doctor has settled herself down on the sofa with a blanket – which seems to have appeared out of nowhere unless Emma had taken longer than she thought – and has a film all ready to go.
"We'll have to be careful not to wake Ayesha," Emma is cautious as she lowers herself down, trying to settle in to a position that is comfortable and finding it much harder than anticipated. Niamh presses play and the film bursts in to life. Some musical that Emma hasn't heard of but which both girls had wanted to watch.
"Nah she could sleep through anything," Emma finds that she cannot concentrate on the films action. She keeps her eyes trained on the screen, but she doesn't hear the words that come from the actor's lips. She tries to force herself to respond appropriately but that proves near impossible when you have little idea of what is going on. She would normally take her lead for Niamh, but almost 35 minutes in to the film, she realises that the Irish doctor has fallen asleep. She doesn't look at all comfortable. Emma finds that her fingers itch towards tucking the blanket around her, or easing out of her own position so that she can somehow manipulate Niamh's body so that she won't wake up stiff. It's the mothering instinct that she sometimes forgets she has. But Emma's body has little desire to move, despite her own discomfort.
As the film reaches the hour mark she finds herself arching her back, no longer able to sustain that position. She feels her body tensing, one hand pressing against the sofa's arm. It doesn't give her the resistance that she craves. She doesn't notice that Niamh has stirred, or that she is watching her through one eye peeked open. Instead she allows her head to drop against her chest; exhaling slowly. She isn't even certain why she is doing these things. She forces herself to rest back against the sofa.
"I can't believe I dropped off," Emma turns her head to see Niamh making something of an act of rubbing at her eyes, and stretching out her body. It is almost comical the length that she seems to be going to, to appear to have just woken, "Did I miss anything good?" She tries to keep her voice neutral, just the right level of interest. The look in Emma's eye is enough to confirm her suspicion that she has no clue what is going on in the film, "Ah come on Emma, what's really the matter?" Niamh shifts position so that she is more upright. She watches the elder doctor carefully, in the hope of picking up on each nuance of her speech, and manner.
"It's nothing," but Emma knows that this will not be enough to placate Niamh now, and that it was rather pointless to have tried. Already she can see her friend getting ready to question her further, no longer willing to accept futile excuses, "Honestly, Niamh it's just a few cramps," and it's not totally a lie. There have been cramps.
"Cramps?" Of course she would be unconvinced by this. If it were Howard, he would have let it slide not really wanting to delve in to the complexities of female problems. But another female is not quite so easy. If Howard were here, things would be so very different.
"I'm due on," she says the words in a rush. It would make sense. The mild pain is similar to that which has preceded her periods in the past. It is a pattern she had come to know – a day or so of mild pain to start giving her a warning; before becoming more intense for the first two days – to the point where she would sometimes need medication to get her through her work day before tailing off in to nothing. It was a cycle that had been with her for years, until she had feared going in to menopause. That was when things had started to change, "I'm fine, really" she tries to force a smile on to her face as though that will make it much more convincing. "Go back to bed Niamh," she is trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.
"It's almost time to get up," she tries to indicate out of the window, where it has indeed lightened slightly but the stormy sky doesn't truly give an indication that it is nearing daytime. She doesn't want to admit that she is fighting to keep her eyes open. She doesn't need to let Emma know that she awoke when the older doctor had headed downstairs, but that she had tried to give her privacy.
"You're exhausted," How had she not realised before now how tired Niamh was looking. Had she been ignoring the signs as she wallowed selfishly in her own issues? Was she perhaps ignorant of something that had happened in her friend's life, something that Niamh hadn't wanted to burden her with.
"I could say the same about you," Niamh's response is soft. Her tone so filled with caring. Emma rests a hand against her abdomen, applying mild pressure at the pain's epicentre. It had worked in the past to an extent.
"Well we'll both go back to bed," Only Emma knows that she won't sleep. She could lie there counting sheep but it'll come to nothing. All that will happen is her mind will start to spin once more in to overdrive. She'll try to fight against the thoughts but each one she pushes away is usually followed by one she wants even less. Not that anything else stops her mind from tormenting her other than work. She could tackle that pile of papers she had offered to do. She had been asking for extra work to keep her thoughts at bay. Anything that was going, she would take. No matter that it left her exhausted; exhaustion at least meant she had a better chance of getting a few hours of sleep. Distraction kept her from completely losing it.
She doesn't give Niamh chance to argue. She pulls herself up, trying to suppress a groan as her back cries out in protest. It makes her feel so much older than her nearly 45 years. She moves with caution, trying to quell the tension in her body. She doesn't want to raise Niamh's suspicions any further. By the time she makes it to her bedroom, she feels another cramp. The mild wave of pain that comes and goes. She feels the brief tensing and then relaxing of muscles.
Deciding that she should at least make an effort, she lowers herself down on the bed, feeling all the more aware of the empty space next to her; what she wouldn't give to feel Howard's arms around her.