Monique- Monaco
Kuzey- TRNC
Naranbaatar- Mongolia
…
Err, sorry for the delay. I kept getting distracted by different things and losing concentration. Warning for mentions of illnesses in this chapter… and most of the story.
...
As a regular drunk, Tsvetan was no stranger to headaches. He often spent whole mornings nursing the things as he avoided sunlight and anything that smelt remotely like alcohol.
But this was something else entirely. He thought he would die from the pain alone, which came in relentless waves that nearly brought him to his knees. He broke into a cold sweat as he struggled to remain standing.
It had taken a short while for the potion to take effect, enough for him to walk into A&E without worry. But by the time he'd reached the desk, he was in agony.
"Please," he rasped, leaning against the desk and gripping the edges with pale, trembling, clammy hands, "help." His throat was like sandpaper, and he felt like he was slowly boiling in his blue hoodie.
The Liberator had neglected to mention these symptoms, of course. All he'd told Tsvetan was that he needed to inject himself with this stuff, walk into A&E and sit in the waiting room. The rest would sort itself out. Tsvetan wasn't sure what was supposed to happen now. They weren't going to experiment on him, were they? Maybe testing out a new drug.
"Okay sir," began the receptionist, a young man with 'Niran Mookjai' written on his ID card. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Pain. My head. Throat's dry." Tsvetan massaged his neck for good measure. He needed water. "Help. Need a doctor. I think I'm dying."
"Yes, you look rather pale," Niran smiled reassuringly. "Take a seat and a doctor will be along in a moment."
"Now." Tsvetan's breathing was ragged. "I need one now." There was a wash of panic, and a surge of blinding anger and hate rushed through his veins. He wanted to tear that annoying receptionist apart.
"There's a queue. You need to wait your turn."
"Do you want to die too? Because if you don't get me a doctor that's what will happen."
"Sir, please be seated," Niran wasn't smiling now. In fact, he was looking a little scared. So he should be.
"Do what I say. Or I will kill you."
"We do not tolerate threats and abuse towards our staff." A short doctor, with a plait trailing down her back, grabbed his sleeve and glared at him with a poisonous expression. Her ID card read Monique Bonnefoy.
And just like that, his anger was gone.
"Sorry," he mumbled, bowing his head. He didn't understand. He would never be this rude to hospital staff! "I don't know what came over me. Truly."
The doctor didn't look convinced. Niran still looked ready to run.
"Very well, just sit down and myself or a colleague will get to you."
This time, Tsvetan complied. He shuffled over to a chair in the corner, sitting on the lumpy plastic just as he was hit by another wave of pain.
…
What with ward rounds, filling in forms and having his dammed pager go off every five seconds, it was mid-morning by the time he finally entered the surgery ward to check on Mr Adnan.
Stelios never liked checking up on this patient. Although he tried to remain friendly but distant to those in his care- especially the dying ones, to save his own heart and mind- he simply couldn't do that with the elderly, Turkish man at death's door.
Mr Adnan had spent years in and out of hospital battling cancer, and for a large part of it, he'd been winning. He came in for his chemotherapy, radiotherapy and to have the tumours surgically removed from whichever part of the body they'd decided to spring up in. But they kept growing back, and now he had a tumour in his brain. It was slowly killing him, but then again, Mr Adnan had been dying for nearly two years. That was when the doctors had first said he only had a short while to live. He'd fought it, and defied all odds, but now it appeared he was finally succumbing. Now it was too difficult for him to walk and see, and talking was a struggle too.
He was to be moved to a hospice soon, where palliative care would see him through the last of his days. The care team would make sure his death was dignified and painless and help him make all the necessary legal arrangements whilst psychologists and an Imam from the local Mosque provided counselling for him and his young son.
He was one of many patients Stelios had cared for, and he would not be the last to die this way, but things were still extremely uncomfortable between the two. They didn't see eye-to-eye on a lot of subjects, Mr Adnan could get quite irritable at times, and Stelios truly didn't know how to react to him.
It also didn't help that he was Stelios' old maths teacher.
Mr Adnan might be old and frail now, but he certainly had a lot of energy as a middle-aged man. He was a fierce teacher, always raising his voice and patronising his students. And he hated Stelios, and Stelios despised him in turn. It didn't help that Stelios had been a scared, clumsy child who was rather slow when it came to maths. He also had a nervous bladder.
Wetting yourself in school was every kid's worse nightmare. But usually that never happened over the age of seven. And it certainly wouldn't happen at thirteen. In front of the class after getting an equation wrong on the board and the teacher shouted at him for a good five minutes, causing him to burst into tears and just stand there in front of a laughing class wailing and wiping snot from his barely visible moustache.
At least Mr Adnan had had the grace to look guilty about it, and never mentioned it as long as he lived. He also became less of a tyrant, not only to Stelios but to the rest of his students, as several of his friends pointed out after thanking him for 'taking one for the team'. That, Stelios decided, was almost worth getting called 'pissy pants' for three years. Almost.
And now this.
He entered the ward, tentative and reluctant as usual. There were only a handful of patients filling the beds, awaiting or recovering from surgeries for their various conditions. Mr Adnan was near the entrance, laying back in bed with intravenous lines snaking in and out of his body. He had lost his muscle, and his spiked brown hair, beard, and pretty much every hair on his chest and arms. His skin was discoloured, greying and wrinkled, papery through his thin pyjamas. His son had produced a length of cloth on one of his visits for Mr Adnan to wear as a turban to cover his baldness, after seeing pictures of them in a history book.
"Um, good morning," Stelios began, walking over to him. Mr Adnan looked over in his general direction, blind eyes clouded and drooping. He smiled at the voice though, skin around the eyes crinkling.
"Ah, doctor," he began in a weak voice, "I trust all is well."
Stelios didn't know how to reply, so he just filled in forms and checked to see that all of his lines were still working and that Mr Adnan's condition hadn't worsened overnight. Everything seemed to be normal, and he was about to leave, when the man spoke again.
"Dr Angel… Stelios," Mr Adnan reached his hand out and Stelios took it, dread rising inside of him; Mr Adnan hadn't called him Stelios since he'd left school. Mr Adnan was silent for a few moments, tracing circles over the back of one of the doctor's hands.
"I'm worried. About Kuzey."
Kuzey was Mr Adnan's 14 year old son, put into care two years ago after his father simply couldn't look after him, and he in turn couldn't care for someone so ill. He visited as often as he was allowed, bringing little presents and stories to keep the man entertained. Even now, a sizable pile of jigsaws and travel games were stacked up next to his bed, never mind that Mr Adnan couldn't even see well enough to actually play them. He appreciated each gift regardless.
Stelios remembered Mr Adnan mentioning that they'd finally tracked down his cousin, who'd agreed to adopt Kuzey. He was already in the country and visiting Kuzey often, to get the boy used to him, apparently. Naranbaatar, the cousin, had come all the way from Ulan Bator to collect him, and would return there with Kuzey. Of course, the boy refused to leave the country while his father was still alive, and Naranbaatar was of the same opinion. Stelios had noticed him visiting on several occasions, asking a barrage of questions about the boy he was now responsible for, as well as his cousin's health and happiness.
He wondered why he was so interested in Mr Adnan's personal life. He never usually observed a patient's life so closely before. Maybe he was just in shock that Mr Adnan of all people was one of his patients, and could actually be good with kids. All through his adolescence, he'd been certain the man loathed children and became a teacher solely to make their lives a misery, but he was so gentle with Kuzey, and absolutely adored the boy. Stelios just wished he hadn't waited until he was in his fifties to get someone pregnant. Maybe his caring side would've come out before Stelios had escaped to college.
"Kuzey?"
"Yes," Mr Adnan took a deep breath, "he's too young to be going through all this. He convinced me he could be my carer before I was admitted, and he was until social services found out. He visits the hospital more times than he turns up for school. I'm worried about him."
"I'm not surprised," Stelios sat down at the edge of his bed, thankful for the chance to rest his feet. "It's a lot for anyone to handle, let alone a kid."
"I feel like I failed him." Mr Adnan's lip quivered.
"I can understand why you're feeling like that," Stelios began slowly, carefully choosing his words, "and it's normal for someone in your position to feel like this…" He looked down at his shoes; "it's not your fault though. Don't ever tell yourself for a moment that it is."
Mr Adnan didn't reply. He just lay there, playing with his hands.
"Come on, old man! You're a knob, but you're not pessimistic."
Mr Adnan barked out a laugh.
"Look, just focus on cherishing what little time you actually have left with your son. He's being looked after, and has a home to go to when you die. You've done enough for him, just don't go all guilt-ridden and distant on him now, you honestly don't have enough time."
"You're right," Mr Adnan glared at him, "how come you were never this smart in school?"
"I was. You never saw. So you can take all those remarks you used to make about me needing a tutor and stick them where I stuck your catheter."
Mr Adnan grimaced. "Besides what you just said, you've been so good to me since I came here…"
"I'm just doing my job." Stelios stood up just as his pager went off. "I, err, I have to get this." He began to walk away.
"Dr Angelopoulos?"
Stelios paused. "Yes?"
"Thank you."
Stelios just nodded, almost barging into a sullen teenage boy in his haste to leave.
