«You’ve always been a burden,» the husband said in front of the doctors.
«Margaret Elizabeth, do leave those IVs for nowyou’ve been at it for three hours! Go home and continue in the morning,» the head of the medical ward paused in the doorway of the treatment room, watching the elderly nurse methodically sorting through vials. «Your Henry must be waiting for you.»
«My Henry stopped waiting for me thirty years ago, and yet here we are, still going strong,» Margaret Elizabeth smiled, but her hands never stoppedsorting, checking, arranging the trays. «Dont fret, Dr. Thomas, Ill be done soon. I just want everything ready for morning rounds.»
The head physician shook his head but didnt argueafter forty years in the hospital, Margaret Elizabeth had earned the right to do things her way. Her precision, diligence, and devotion to her work were the stuff of ward legend.
«By the way,» he said, turning to leave, «the patient in Room Seven asked for you. Catherine Anne. Says you promised her some drops.»
«Oh, goodness, I nearly forgot!» Margaret Elizabeth clasped her hands to her chest. «Shes been struggling to sleep, poor dear. I told her Id bring Dr. Whitmores prescription.»
«There you aresort that and go home,» he said sternly. «Or else Henry will ring me tomorrow, complaining Im working you too hard.»
Margaret Elizabeth laughed. «He wont. He never did learn to use the telephone properly. Says hes too old for newfangled gadgets.»
Once the doctor left, she finished with the IVs and made her way to Room Seven. There, by the window, lay a woman in her fifties, thin and worn, with premature silver threading through her brown hair. Despite her illness, her eyes held a quiet dignity and a sorrow she kept carefully tucked away.
«Catherine Anne, you wanted to see me? Forgive me, I lost track of time,» Margaret Elizabeth sat gently on the edge of the bed. «How are you feeling?»
«Better, thank you,» the woman replied with a faint smile. «The shortness of breath has eased. But I cant sleep at nightmy mind wont quiet.»
«Thats the nerves,» Margaret Elizabeth nodded. «Your body needs time to heal after such an operation. HereIve brought the drops Dr. Whitmore prescribed. Twenty in half a glass of water before bed.»
«Thank you,» Catherine Anne took the small bottle. «Youre always so kind. I havent met many like you in my life.»
Something in her tone made Margaret Elizabeth study her more closely.
«Is everything all right? I dont mean your health. Does anyone visit you?»
«My daughter comes when she can,» Catherine Anne answered. «Shes good to me. But she lives far away, and its not always possible. And my husband» she hesitated, «hes busy with work.»
Margaret Elizabeth frowned but said nothing. Years in the ward had taught her to hear the words patients didnt speak. Something here was very wrong.
«You know what,» she said suddenly, «lets tidy your hair. Its lovely, but its all in tangles. Youre still too weak to manage it yourself, and theres little enough comfort in hospital beds as it is.»
Without waiting for an answer, she took the comb from the bedside table and began gently working through the knots. Catherine Anne stiffened at first, then relaxed under the soothing, rhythmic strokes.
«My mother used to do this for me,» she murmured. «Said it was the best cure for sadness. I did the same for my daughter when she was little. But my husband» she trailed off.
«What about him?» Margaret Elizabeth prompted softly.
«He calls it nonsense,» Catherine Anne said after a pause. «Says long hair is just extra work. That with my back the way it is, I should cut it shortmore practical. But I refused just this once.»
«Good,» Margaret Elizabeth nodded. «A womans hair is her strength. Men dont understand that.»
They sat in silence. Margaret Elizabeth finished combing and began weaving a loose braid.
«Tell me about yourself,» Catherine Anne asked. «Do you have family? You mentioned a husband»
«Not much to tell,» Margaret Elizabeth chuckled. «Just me and my Henry. Our sons in Canadawe see the grandchildren by video call once in a blue moon. The two of us rattle around the house like old teacups. Forty-five years marriedhard to believe!»
«Forty-five» Catherine Anne echoed. «This year would have been thirty-two for me and Edward. If I make it.»
«Dont say such things!» Margaret Elizabeth chided. «Of course you will. The operation went well, your tests are improving. Youll be chasing great-grandchildren yet.»
«Edward doesnt want grandchildren,» Catherine Anne said quietly. «Says Im trouble enough as it is. That theyd just mean more bother.»
Margaret Elizabeths hands stilled. Something in the womans voice made her heart clench with unease.
«Catherine Anne,» she began carefully, «does your husband always speak to you like that?»
The woman was silent a long while before sighing deeply. «No, not always. When we were young, it was different. He was attentive, kindbrought flowers, said sweet things. Then then I fell ill. My back started giving outpinched nerves, constant pain. I had to leave my job. And Edward he became someone else. Irritable over my complaints, the medicines, the housework I couldnt do as before.»
Margaret Elizabeth gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
«At first I thought it was temporarystress, fatigue. Then I hoped it would pass once our daughter grew up. But she did, and it only got worse. I became» she searched for the word, «a burden. Thats what he calls me. Youre a burden, Catherine. Nothing but trouble and expense.»
«The nerve!» Margaret Elizabeth couldnt help herself. «And youve endured this?»
«What choice have I?» Catherine Anne shrugged. «Where would I go? No one would hire me with my back the way it is, and my pensions barely enough for a cuppa. My daughters just starting her lifeI wont saddle her with my troubles. So I stay, trying not to make things worse.»
Margaret Elizabeth finished the braid and sat facing her.
«Catherine Anne, my dear, this is no way to live. A husband should be your support in sickness, not your accuser. Thirty-two years together, a daughter raiseddoesnt he see youre not to blame for your illness?»
«Edward says I am,» Catherine Anne looked away. «That I ate wrong, moved too little, sat poorly at my desk. And the cost of treatments I tried to economize, skipped medicines I should have taken. Then this operationhe was furious when he saw the bills.»
«Wait,» Margaret Elizabeth frowned. «But the surgery was covered by the NHS.»
«The surgery, yes,» Catherine Anne nodded. «But the scans beforehand, the back brace afterward, the rehabilitation. Moneys tightthe mortgage, the car loan.»
«And the car, I suppose, is his?» Margaret Elizabeth raised a brow.
«Of course,» the woman gave a joyless smile. «He needs it for work. Hes the breadwinner.»
Margaret Elizabeth opened her mouth, but just then a young nurse entered.
«Margaret Elizabeth, youre needed at the desk. Your husbands on the phone.»
«Henry? Ringing the ward?» She was astonished. «Something must be wrong. Right then, Catherine Anne, Ill be off. Dont forget your drops.»
As she left, she noticed Dr. Whitmore speaking with a middle-aged man by the nurses stationwell-dressed, with an expensive watch and the rigid posture of one used to giving orders.
«I want to know the prognosis,» the man was saying. «How long until shes recovered? When can she come home?»
«Recovery from this sort of operation takes time,» Dr. Whitmore explained patiently. «A month in hospital at least, then home care. For the first weeks, Catherine Anne will need constant assistancehelp moving, bathing»
«Constant care?» The mans face twisted. «I have a jobI cant be with her all day. Cant we speed things along? More treatments, perhaps?»
«The body heals at its own pace,» Dr. Whitmore shook his head. «But you could arrange for a carer. Or perhaps a relative might help?»
«Carers cost money,» the man snapped. «Weve no family nearbyjust our daughter, and shes in Manchester.»
Margaret Elizabeth picked up the phone, trying not to listen, but the mans irritation was unmistakable. Something told her this was Catherine Annes husband.
«Henry?» she said into the receiver.
«Meg, when are you coming home?» His voice was anxious. «The cookers acting upthe gasmans here, but he says he needs the householder.»
«Ill be there soon,» she said. «Twenty minutes or so. Put the kettle on, Ill be starving.»
Hanging up, she couldnt help overhearing more.
«Doctor, I need to speak with my wife,» the man said, irritation rising. «Make her understand she must put more effort into recovery. Shes often how to put it lacking motivation.»
Dr. Whitmoreyoung but already respected for his skillstraightened.
«Your wife has undergone major spinal surgery. Shes doing exceptionally well, given the circumstances. Healing takes time.»
«Just take me to her,» the man insisted. «Ill make things clear.»
They moved toward the ward, and Margaret Elizabeth, uneasy, followed. Something about this man set her teeth on edge.
Inside, Catherine Anne was struggling to sit up, gripping the bed rails. Seeing her husband, she froze, her face caught between surprise and something like fear.
«Edward? You came?»
«I did,» he remained by the door. «Spoke with your doctor. He says youll be lounging here awhile yet.»
«Im doing all the exercises,» she said quietly. «Following every instruction.»
«Not hard enough, apparently,» he pursed his lips. «Do you even realize what this is costing? Third time Ive taken leave to bring your things, sign papers. And these medicines youre always demanding»
«I dont demand,» Catherine Anne looked down. «Only whats necessary. Ive tried to save»
«Oh, a regular economist,» he cut in. «Saved your way straight to surgery. How many times did I tell yousee a doctor before it got this bad? But no, you dithered, worried over expense. Now its costlier than ever.»
Dr. Whitmore cleared his throat. «Spinal conditions often»
«Doctor, Ive known this woman thirty-two years,» Edward said coldly. «Shes always been this wayputs things off until theyre dire. Her job, our daughter, now her health.»
Catherine Anne sat silent, fingers plucking at the blanket.
«Edward, please,» she finally said. «Not now. I really am getting betterIll be home soon, out of your way.»
«Out of my way?» He gave a humorless laugh. «Catherine, youve always been in the way. First with your moods after the baby, then the headaches, now this back. Our whole marriageme, carrying the weight of your problems.»
The room went still. Dr. Whitmores jaw tightened. Margaret Elizabeth stepped forward.
«Young man,» she said, startled by her own boldness, «you are in a hospital. Speaking to someone fresh from major surgery. Have some respectif not for your wife, then for where you stand.»
Edward turned as if noticing her for the first time.
«And you are?»
«Margaret Elizabeth, senior ward sister,» she said crisply. «And Ill ask you to leave if you cant speak civilly.»
«Thats my wife, and Ill»
«You have visiting rights during designated hours, conducted with decorum,» she interrupted. «Right now, youre disrupting patient care.»
«Listen here, I wont be lectured by some nurse on how to speak to my own wife!» Edwards voice rose.
«And I wont tolerate abuse of patients in my ward,» Dr. Whitmore said firmly. «I suggest you leave and return when youve composed yourself.»
Edward looked between them, then at his wifestill silent, head bowed.
«Fine,» he bit out. «Coddle her, indulge her. But mark my words, Catherinewhen you come home, therell be no carer. Manage on your own.»
He left, the door slamming behind him.
The room was quiet. Then Catherine Anne looked upher eyes bright with tears, but her voice steady.
«Im sorry you saw that. Edward he isnt always like this. Just tired, I expect.»
Dr. Whitmore and Margaret Elizabeth exchanged glances.
«Catherine Anne,» the doctor began carefully, «does your husband often speak to you this way?»
«Oh, no,» she attempted a smile. «Its just a difficult time. Work troubles, and now my operation»
«Thats no excuse,» Margaret Elizabeth said firmly. «No man has the right to speak to any woman so, least of all one whos ill.»
«You dont understand,» Catherine Anne whispered. «Ive nowhere to go. I depend on him completelymoney, my health. My daughters just starting outI cant burden her.»
Dr. Whitmore perched on the beds edge. «There are services for situations like this. Rehabilitation centers where you could recover. And» he hesitated, «this could be considered emotional abuse.»
«Abuse?» Catherine Anne shook her head. «No, hes never raised a hand. Just words. And weariness. Thirty-two yearsthats no small thing.»
Margaret Elizabeth took her hand. «My dear, not all marriages look like this at thirty years. Take it from meHenry and I have had our quarrels, but never, ever cruelty like that. This isnt fatigue. Its hardness of heart.»
«But what can I do?» Desperation edged Catherine Annes voice.
«First, heal,» said Dr. Whitmore. «While youre here, well see what can be arranged.»
After he left, Margaret Elizabeth stayed awhile longer, settling Catherine Anne comfortably and giving her the drops.
«You know,» she said before leaving, «when Henry and I first met, he was just as full of himself as your Edward. Thought the world owed him something. Then I fell illa terrible pneumonia. He sat up nights, changed compresses, made broth. Thats when I knew he was a true man. Not one who loves you in health, but one who stays through sickness.»
«You were lucky,» Catherine Anne murmured.
«Not luck,» Margaret Elizabeth corrected. «Choice. And you still have choices aheadnot for new love, perhaps, but for a different life. Without humiliation, without this endless guilt. Think on that.»
She left then, Catherine Anne silent and thoughtful behind her.
That evening, over tea, Margaret Elizabeth told Henry about the days events. He listened, shaking his heada stocky man with a face as lined as old oak.
«Bloody monster,» he said when she finished. «How do such men live with themselves?»
«I dont know,» Margaret Elizabeth sighed. «But seeing them, I thank my stars for you every time.»
Henry huffed, embarrassed but pleased. «Ah, get on with you. Im just an ordinary bloke.»
«Extraordinary,» she patted his gnarled hand. «The very best.»
Meanwhile, in the hospital room, Catherine Anne lay awake despite the drops. She thought of her husbands words, of thirty-two years with a man who saw her as dead weight. Of how many more she might endure. And for the first time in years, a quiet, stubborn thought took rootthat perhaps, just perhaps, it wasnt too late to change things.
