hagiography

There was a time when Fiona could reach
the light switch. She'd stretch her arm, press with her fingers and
then snuggle under the duvet. Now? She was in constant pain. Every
muscle in her body ached. It was too much effort. The lights, like
her agony, were left on. Only the intervention of another, person or
drug, could help.

“Cup of tea?” Adam's voice drifted
through the open bedroom door. In the kitchen downstairs he was
making tomorrow's packed lunches for the girls. Fiona barely had the
strength to answer. 'How can he expect me to shout?' she thought
irritably, 'He knows I don't have it in me'.

Adam appeared carrying a tray, a thin
smile slitting his face. “Up you get then.” Fiona groaned as
she struggled onto her elbows. She flopped forwards, hoping he'd
rearrange the pillows behind her back. Her breath came in short
blasts, beads of sweat began to form on her face, around her
hairline, above her top lip. Adam's smile faded. He put the tray
down and thump-slapped the pillows into shape.

At first, when it started, Fiona had
been grateful for his attentions. Eight months later and his
attitude was getting on her nerves. He didn't know what it was like
to be stranded all day, every day, in bed, unable to perform even the
simplest of tasks. Getting up to go to the toilet was a marathon
adventure. By the time she lowered herself on the seat she felt as
if she'd completed twenty six grueling miles. She was so sick and
tired, of the illness, of Adam, of everything.

Her arms lay limp on the duvet. He
passed her the mug of tea. “Can't I have it in a cup?” she said,
“These big mugs are really heavy, and there's too much in them”.

“But you don't want to get
dehydrated.”

“I'll be up and down all night.”
Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

“Wake me,” he said, his mouth
getting tighter.

“You'll only complain in the
morning,” she snapped.

He nodded his head.

Last month Adam joined a support group
for partners of people suffering from ME. It was the same story from
everyone – trying to juggle work, domestic duties, the needs of their
children. It was bloody exhausting and completely thankless. He
discovered he wasn't the only one struggling with tidal waves of
depression. Most members were taking some form of medication to help
them deal with the stress and strain. Fiona didn't understand. She
couldn't cope with her own illness, let alone the way it was
affecting him.

Adam was reluctant to go to the
doctors. They'd had trouble with him. Initially he'd failed to
diagnose ME, saying Fiona was suffering from some sort of post viral
syndrome. As the weeks and months passed they'd become desperate.
The doctor was most obliging with sick notes, but Fiona was getting
worse. Eventually they went private, even though they couldn't
afford it, not on his wages as a train driver and the measely amount
of sick pay Fiona got. When they went back to their own GP he
sneered at the second opinion. “Yuppie flu,” he said with
derision. Adam could've punched him.

The television poured audio visual
rubbish into the bedroom. Fiona sat staring at it, glassy eyed, her
head cocked to one side. “I didn't know you liked watching Top
Gear,” Adam said. She'd always complained in the past. Something
about Jeremy Clarkson's leather blouson jacket and Tory politics.

“I don't,” she replied simply,
“Just can't find the remote”.

Adam handed it to her, trying to dredge
up a small portion of sympathy. He looked at her face, the way her
skin now sagged around her bones, creased like laundry left in the
tumble drier too long. She used to be quite attractive. They used
to have fun.

He bent down, untied his shoe laces and
started undressing from the feet up. Fiona paid no attention. There
was a time when she used reach for the light switch …

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