pocket of air for three hours: three hours in which she must have struggled with the fact of her abandonment, three hours in which the horror of reality had forced her to retreat into a protective coma, a retreat from which shewas only painfully emerging. For this was no ordinary coma. Fate had reserved another twist of the knife.
Locked In Syndrome (LIS) was still a little-understood condition, but medical experts were at least now agreed that it existed. Victims usually entered the coma under extreme trauma; however, the peculiarities of LIS were connected not to the outward symptoms, but to the inward realities. Sufferers exhibited no signs of mental or physical activity, but those who had emerged from LIS reported varying degrees of consciousness – from fleeting dreamlike visions to a state very close to normality. Those able to move a finger – or more often an eyelid – were able to communicate using the latest technology. After three years of immobility Laura had managed to move the small finger on her right hand and had learnt to communicate using a machine – the COMPASS – which had been installed by her bed. It constantly displayed a grid of letters and by flicking a switch placed in the palm of her hand Laura was able to select them. As her slow recovery continued she had mastered the COMPASS using a suck-and-blow pipe which could be placed between her lips. Her messages were often fluent and rational, but interspersed with prolonged periods of either silence or a dreamlike surrealism.
Dryden entered the room, turning the dial on the dimmer to illuminate the figure on the bed draped in a single white sheet.
The COMPASS jumped instantly into life, a spool of paper trickling out of a printer like ticker-tape.
One of the refinements Laura had learnt was to prepare a sentence on screen and then activate the print key as her husband entered the room.
HI. LOVE YOU.
It was a ritualistic greeting, but welcome none the less.Dryden’s spirits rose, and he edged on to the bed, insinuated an arm under Laura’s neck, and raised her head higher on the pillows. Her hair was an exuberant pile of auburn, which he noted had been freshly brushed. The nurses, who maintained an optimism about their patient which Dryden struggled to match, often applied some make-up as well, adding colour to the Latin tan which had paled so visibly over the years.
Laura’s eyes, a liquid brown, swam slightly as she fought to focus on his face. He felt a surge of optimism and clutched her tighter. The year had been marked by a steady improvement in her health, and the first spasmodic movements of muscles in her right arm and foot. They’d been enthusiastic about the suggestion from the consultant that she might leave The Tower – a brief excursion into the outside world, a weekend perhaps, or more, but somewhere close to medical care if her condition caused alarm.
Dryden turned her head gently towards the window. ‘It’s so warm in here,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea. Outside it’s minus 10 or something. The river’s freezing up by the Maltings, the boat’s locked in.’
While he held her there was no way she could operate the COMPASS, an enforced silence he knew Laura enjoyed. He spilled out news of the rest of the day, making sure he included the kind of details she loved: Humph’s diet, the minutiae of The Crow ’s eccentric personalities, and – most difficult of all – how he felt.
But more often he escaped by telling her what he’d done.
‘I got the splash again,’ he said. It was one of their jokes. On Fleet Street, on the News , he’d fought every day to get the lead story. Once, perhaps twice, a month he’d land the honour. On The Crow it was his by default.
‘Guy, in his late thirties, froze to death in his armchair athome. Twelfth floor of a block of council flats, with all the windows open. I guess he didn’t care if he lived or died but I can think of easier ways to end it.’
He stopped, sensing
Locked In Syndrome (LIS) was still a little-understood condition, but medical experts were at least now agreed that it existed. Victims usually entered the coma under extreme trauma; however, the peculiarities of LIS were connected not to the outward symptoms, but to the inward realities. Sufferers exhibited no signs of mental or physical activity, but those who had emerged from LIS reported varying degrees of consciousness – from fleeting dreamlike visions to a state very close to normality. Those able to move a finger – or more often an eyelid – were able to communicate using the latest technology. After three years of immobility Laura had managed to move the small finger on her right hand and had learnt to communicate using a machine – the COMPASS – which had been installed by her bed. It constantly displayed a grid of letters and by flicking a switch placed in the palm of her hand Laura was able to select them. As her slow recovery continued she had mastered the COMPASS using a suck-and-blow pipe which could be placed between her lips. Her messages were often fluent and rational, but interspersed with prolonged periods of either silence or a dreamlike surrealism.
Dryden entered the room, turning the dial on the dimmer to illuminate the figure on the bed draped in a single white sheet.
The COMPASS jumped instantly into life, a spool of paper trickling out of a printer like ticker-tape.
One of the refinements Laura had learnt was to prepare a sentence on screen and then activate the print key as her husband entered the room.
HI. LOVE YOU.
It was a ritualistic greeting, but welcome none the less.Dryden’s spirits rose, and he edged on to the bed, insinuated an arm under Laura’s neck, and raised her head higher on the pillows. Her hair was an exuberant pile of auburn, which he noted had been freshly brushed. The nurses, who maintained an optimism about their patient which Dryden struggled to match, often applied some make-up as well, adding colour to the Latin tan which had paled so visibly over the years.
Laura’s eyes, a liquid brown, swam slightly as she fought to focus on his face. He felt a surge of optimism and clutched her tighter. The year had been marked by a steady improvement in her health, and the first spasmodic movements of muscles in her right arm and foot. They’d been enthusiastic about the suggestion from the consultant that she might leave The Tower – a brief excursion into the outside world, a weekend perhaps, or more, but somewhere close to medical care if her condition caused alarm.
Dryden turned her head gently towards the window. ‘It’s so warm in here,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea. Outside it’s minus 10 or something. The river’s freezing up by the Maltings, the boat’s locked in.’
While he held her there was no way she could operate the COMPASS, an enforced silence he knew Laura enjoyed. He spilled out news of the rest of the day, making sure he included the kind of details she loved: Humph’s diet, the minutiae of The Crow ’s eccentric personalities, and – most difficult of all – how he felt.
But more often he escaped by telling her what he’d done.
‘I got the splash again,’ he said. It was one of their jokes. On Fleet Street, on the News , he’d fought every day to get the lead story. Once, perhaps twice, a month he’d land the honour. On The Crow it was his by default.
‘Guy, in his late thirties, froze to death in his armchair athome. Twelfth floor of a block of council flats, with all the windows open. I guess he didn’t care if he lived or died but I can think of easier ways to end it.’
He stopped, sensing
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