Losing It

Chapter 10 – Blood Phobia

Hope stood there, looking at Martin with her mouth open in a perfectly round O. There were simply too many things to process. After a long minute of stunned silence, her medical training kicked in automatically.

"You're soaked through. And your lips are blue. You must be a block of ice! Come in here where it's warm before you catch pneumonia," she urged him, gesturing towards the front room.

Martin looked down and seemed just to have discovered that he was drenched, as if it hadn't previously occurred to him. "I'm wet – I don't want to track up your carpet. And pneumonia is caused by bacteria, or sometimes a virus. You don't get it from being cold." He looked stricken. "I shouldn't have come."

"Well you are here now, and I am not letting you leave until you are warmer. Up to the bath, I think. You can soak in some hot water while I throw those wet scrubs in the dryer. Nothing I have will come close to fitting you but I can get you a blanket or something to wrap up in."

Martin looked as helpless as a small child. She took his hand for just a moment. It was like an icicle. She shooed him towards the stairs.

"Up you go. Do you remember where the bath is? Can you run the taps yourself?"

Martin nodded his head but she wasn't sure which question he was answering, and she doubted his ability to comprehend the question in any event. She followed him up and pushed him ahead of her into the lavatory.

"I'm going to run the water – can you manage it from there?" He nodded again. She'd have to believe him. She couldn't bring herself to think about undressing him and bathing him, even if she was a doctor. She filled the large, cast iron tub with steaming water and made sure there were several fluffy towels on the warming rack.

"Stay as long as you like in here. I'll leave a blanket outside the door for you to wrap up in. Bring me the clothes when you come down and I'll get them in the dryer straight away. Do you think you could manage something to eat?"

He nodded again and with a long backward glance she left him. She found a soft fleece picnic rug and left it for him, then went down to the kitchen to see what she could come up with to feed him. She settled on soup – it was only tinned, but it should be warming. She put the kettle on for tea, and then pulled out a bottle of whiskey as well. Purely medicinal, she thought.

When Martin came downstairs at last, looking awkward and uncomfortable with the blanket wrapped around him like a toga, she had a place set at the table with a steaming bowl of soup, a mug of tea and a large measure of whiskey in a tumbler. She'd poured herself a tot, too – she supposed she was going to need fortification tonight. He sat, wordlessly, and added milk to his tea. He looked warmer but no less distraught.

She took the bundle of clothes from him and popped them in the dryer. Twenty minutes ought to make a world of difference. She came back to the table and watched him eat his soup, holding tight to the blanket with his other hand.

"So how did you get so wet? What were you doing out there in this weather?"

"Walking. Thinking."

"Where did you walk from? Your place?"

"Hospital."

"St. Thomas? That's miles away! It would take hours and hours. Couldn't you have driven? Or taken the tube?"

"I didn't set out to walk here, I just ended up here. I needed to clear my head. I started walking and walking and then it was dark and I just kept walking. When I passed the clock shop I knew I was near your place and I thought, I hoped, maybe you would talk me through this."

"You started before it got dark? Martin, you got here at nearly half-ten! How many hours were you out in this?"

"I dunno. Maybe since half-two or so. Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. You were probably going to sleep and you have work tomorrow. Thank you for the soup. I'll get my clothes and organize a taxi."

"Martin! You must be exhausted. And you are clearly in some distress. Why don't you drink up and tell me what's going on? You said something about what, haemophobia? What's that exactly and why would you think that you've got it?"

And so slowly, haltingly, with stops to bury his head in his hands, and more stops to drink the warm amber whiskey, he told her about the panic, the terror, the blood. He left nothing out except the nasty, personal gossip of the juniors in the changing room. He couldn't bring himself to tell her about that.

"I can't seem to shake it. When the attack comes over me, all I can see is poor Mrs. Clark and her family, clinging to her. I can't cut her. I can't cut someone's mother – someone's wife. And not just someone anonymous. I can SEE them. Her son, her husband. I met them. I spoke to them. I promised to take care of her. I get sweaty, my heart starts racing, and I start to hyperventilate. I get nauseated and as you witnessed, I need to vomit. The blood seems to rush out of my head and then over I go."

"Oh, Martin, luv, that sounds awful. I can't imagine how it must be for you. I'm sorry." She went over and knelt before him, taking his hands in hers. They were warmer now but seemed to tremble. He seemed surprised at her touch and looked up.

"Do you mean that? When you say that, do you mean it?"

"Which part? When I say what?" Hope was confused.

"I've heard you say it before – it's a signature line of yours. Don't worry 'luv', this won't hurt. Do you really love them? Love your patients? Or is it just a farce?"

She thought about this. "Well maybe not in a personal sense – but I love them in the sense that I love humanity. And it's a way to reassure them – others say 'dearie' or "ducks' or whatever – 'luv' is just what we said in my house growing up. Why? Does it bother you, when I say it, I mean? Did it bother you when I said it to you – I didn't mean any harm by it?"

"I don't. Never did. Never could."

"What couldn't you do? Call someone 'luv'?"

"Love humanity. Love my patients. I never tried to reassure them. I saw the arteries, the veins, the medical conditions. They weren't people, they were cases, they were challenges, they were work. I couldn't call them luv; I couldn't even call them ma'am or sir. I could only call them Mrs. abdominal aortic aneurysm or Mr. blocked carotid artery. Male, aged 70, smoker with high blood pressure."

She considered this carefully before answering. She sat herself on the arm of his chair and put one arm around his shoulder. "I think you needed to do that, to keep your emotional distance from the patients. I mean I can't imagine how you would cut people up every day thinking you were plunging your scalpel into someone you loved. That would tear you to pieces. You couldn't have made it a week, let alone twelve years thinking that way. Don't beat yourself up for maintaining your objectivity. You are a fine surgeon – one of the very best. We all do what we need to do to get through it."

"But what do I do now - now that I've somehow lost that objectivity?"

"I dunno, luv. I really don't. But you can't be the first this has happened to, right? There have to be doctors, therapists, someone who would know how to help you through this. We'll find someone. It will look better in the morning. Everything does."

He didn't seem convinced. He looked very weary and pale; the whiskey was starting to affect him as well. She could see he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Look, you need some sleep. I'll bet your clothes are dry now, and you can put them on and get into bed here. "

"No, no. I couldn't. I already put you out of your bed and inconvenienced you once – I couldn't bear to do it again."

"You'd be doing me a favor, actually. I'm not going to be able to sleep worried sick about you. If I call you a taxi and send you home, I'll just be up all night worrying. If you stay here, at least I will be able to know you are alright."

With that she pulled the clothes out of the dryer and handed them to him. "You get changed. I'm going upstairs to run through the shower and get changed myself. I want you to finish that whiskey before you come up. Doctor's orders."

Martin nodded, and watched her go upstairs. He took a big swig of the whiskey. He was embarrassed at how much he needed this, the comfort this woman had to offer. Slowly, he pulled on his boxers and the reassuringly familiar scrubs. They were warm from the dryer, and he felt much better not relying on a blanket to cover himself. He draped the blanket back over his shoulders and listened to the water running for Hope's shower. Sip by slow sip he polished off the glass of whiskey.

X X X X X

Hope awoke to screams. It took her only seconds to realize what was happening, and she leapt out of the nest she'd made on the sofa and sprinted up the stairs to the bedroom where Martin had gone to sleep so peacefully a few hours earlier. He was sitting up and screaming but his eyes were closed and he didn't seem to be aware of her. A nightmare, she thought. Well who wouldn't have one after what he'd been through?

"Shh, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay, luv. I promise." She sat beside him on the bed and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. She wasn't sure whether or not she should wake him. He seemed to calm just a bit at her touch, so she began to pat his back and then to rub his shoulders. Slowly the terror seemed to subside and he relaxed enough to lie back down of his own accord. She breathed a sigh of relief.

He looked warm and content now. And so peaceful. She studied his features in repose and it dawned on her then just how handsome he was, or at least he could be, when he wasn't acting like a tyrant. He seemed younger, softer, even more vulnerable. Irresistible. Tentatively, she reached out a hand to stroke his cheek, his ear, and then the line of his jaw. He shifted in his sleep, and mumbled. She worried that he was falling back into another nightmare. Thinking she'd better stay there to tend him if he started screaming again, she slipped under the covers and curled up beside him.

X X X X X

Martin woke at six, feeling an incredible sense of well-being. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and another moment to realize he was not alone. Hope, clad in the same, modest, little-girl flannel pyjamas, was curled up next to him, burrowed into his warmth. Her hair was spread across his arm and he could smell a lovely floral scent that must be her shampoo. He breathed it in luxuriously, and then reflexively tightened his arm around her back.

He didn't recall how she came to be there and he wasn't exactly sure what it meant that she was there. But it was intensely comforting to know he was not alone. He had slept well and soundly – he wasn't sure if it was Hope's reassuring presence, or the whiskey, or the long walk that had done it. He stretched a little, being careful not to disturb her. She murmured something unintelligible and nestled closer to him, one warm hand snaking across his chest. It was wonderful. It made him feel strong, and powerful, and in control.

He examined her features. He marveled at her tiny ear and her long eyelashes and the way her hair formed long spirals of curls, like coiled springs. She had beautiful skin, like porcelain. Despite her size, there was fierceness, a spirit there that transcended her frame and made her seem larger than life. He put a finger on her rosebud lips and wondered idly what it might be like to kiss her there.

That thought caused him great consternation. Here I am taking advantage of her in the worst way. She's been nothing but kind and supportive, and first I go and make her the butt of that awful gossip and now I've somehow wormed my way again into her bed. Uninvited. Probably unwelcome. Certainly without doing anything for her.

And what did you figure, Martin, that she fancied you? After you vomited all over her? Cried in front of her? Showed up in a state in the middle of the night so she could coddle you like a toddler? What woman would fancy that? And what, now you think because you're here, she's going to let you kiss her, let you make love to her? You're worse than Percy. Worse than all of them. What would she see in you now anyway? You're afraid of blood, afraid to perform surgery, afraid to do your job. And what else can you do? Tinker with clocks? What a joke.

He gently untangled himself from her and pulled the coverlet over her shoulders. He crept down the stairs and was putting on his clogs when she came hurtling down, calling his name.

"I'm here, just going actually," he called from the foyer.

"Are you alright? Sleep okay?" She seemed concerned and a bit confused.

"Fine. So sorry to have troubled you last night. I'm not sure what came over me." He was stiff and formal.

"Won't you stay for some coffee? I'll make some porridge? We could take the tube in together."

He blanched at the thought of what would be said in the changing rooms if they arrived at the hospital together this morning. "No. Not a good idea. I, err, need to go home first. I'll get a taxi."

"Well, have a good day then." She looked at him tentatively, and then went to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He immediately pushed her away.

"Don't. Don't do that." He turned and went for the door.

She was crushed. Hurt and dismay were written on her face. He couldn't bear to look at her and so he didn't. He walked through the door and he didn't look back.