Read Online The Dark Threads by Jean Davison - Free Book Online Page B

might end up like that.’
    He frowned. ‘Well, look at them and think you’re not going to end up like that. Be determined not to. Don’t give up, Jean. Promise me you’ll keep fighting against it.’
    Dear Danny. He tried hard to help me. He came to visit me often at first. When he couldn’t afford the bus fares, he managed to borrow a pushbike and cycled the seven miles through bitter winter winds to arrive at the hospital, red-faced, hands chapped and numb with cold. He put his beloved guitar aside for a while and got a job in a shop. After finishing work, he’d rush straight to the hospital to arrive promptly at visiting time. Then we would sit holding hands, me falling asleep or withdrawing into a private world of despair – what dismal company I must have been. Danny was a Catholic but he went to a meeting at my old church and talked with Pastor West in an attempt to understand me better.
    â€˜All the candles I light at church and the prayers I say are for you,’ he said, which reminded me of how selfish my own prayers had become. ‘I lit one for you this morning.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ I said, unable to share his faith but warming a little at the thought of my tiny candle flickering in the cold and darkness of a church, silently testifying that if people care for people, there will always be hope.
    * * *
    I kept careful count of each ECT session, marking the wall behind my bedside cabinet with a pencil. I dressed on Thursday, a morning the ambulance was due to take patients from our ward for ECT, greatly relieved that my course was finished.
    â€˜Get undressed! You’re having some more shock treatment,’ Sister Oldroyd said. Just like that. Not a suggestion but a command.
    â€˜I’ve had eight,’ I reminded her.
    â€˜Yes, but you’re no better.’
    I couldn’t deny I was no better; I’d never felt worse. But I didn’t see how shooting electric currents into my weary brain could help me.
    I tentatively asked her why she wanted me to have more and she replied curtly that her reasons were none of my business. Anger broke through my lethargy despite my passive, drugged state. None of my business? It was my brain.
    â€˜I’m not having any more shock treatments,’ I told her. This was my first act of assertiveness in the hospital, my first attempt to gain some control over my life.
    â€˜What? Oh yes you are,’ she said. The note of confident authority in her voice chilled me. But how could I live with myself if I meekly allowed this to happen?
    â€˜No, I’m not,’ I said.
    She stared at me open-mouthed, then she said angrily, ‘You’d better go home then. I’ve had enough of you.’
    â€˜OK. I’ll go home.’
    â€˜Right. When your parents next visit, let’s just see if they’ll agree to you going home with them.’
    â€˜I’m sure they will,’ I said as she walked away. But I wasn’t sure of anything. I was trembling at the thought that she might be able to persuade them it would be best if I stayed.
    I tried to remember the wording on the ECT consent form I’d signed and realised it hadn’t specified how many treatments I was agreeing to have. And I remembered Beryl’s strange, crooked smile when she’d said, ‘Voluntary. Ah, yes. What does that word mean in here?’ Well, what did it mean? I’d heard others say since that ‘voluntary’ patients who don’t conform to the wishes of the staff could be ‘sectioned’, in other words detained and treated against their will. Could that happen to me? Could I be forced to have further ECT? My stomach muscles tensed up in a painful spasm; I gripped the bed end. Lord, no!
    After breakfast, Dr Sugden arrived on the ward. Since arranging my admission, he had never been to see me, but I gathered he was still ultimately in charge of my treatment. As he was leaving, he nodded to