You Don't Own Me 2 (The Russian Don 2)

Thirty-one

Zane

(Coma)

Coma! The word reverberates in the room and my head swims with horror. I feel a cage closing in, all the exits being sealed off. It is not going to be all right. She’s in a … I can’t even believe it … coma.

‘Coma,’ I echo blankly.

‘As bad as it sounds in her present condition it’s not actually a bad thing,’ Dr, Medhi explains cautiously. ‘It allows her brain to essentially rewire itself. In the darkness of the brain the one hundred billion odd cells can find each other again. If enough connections are made her brain will wake up. The human brain is an amazing thing.’

‘If?’ I ask warily.

‘Of course, there is still a chance that she will never wake up.’

My mouth drops open. ‘There is a chance she will never wake up?’

Dr. Medhi’s hands open out. ‘On the Glasgow Coma Scale assessment she scored 3.’

‘What is that? Is it good or bad?’

‘The scale assesses the degree of brain impairment or injury and measures the patient’s brain functionality. Responses elicited include eye opening, verbal responses and motor responses such as movement. The responses are then ranked on a scale of 3-15 with 3 being the lowest and 15 being the highest.’

I stare at him in horror.

‘Well, a deeper coma alone does not necessarily mean a slimmer chance of recovery, because some people in deep coma recover better than others in so-called milder comas. Many factors determine the final outcome, severity of the injury, length of time the person is in a coma.’ He spreads his hands out, as if he is a used car salesman trying to convince me that he’s just an honest guy. ‘It is a thing we still don’t understand very well.’

‘What are the chances of her waking up?’

‘I don’t know, but what I can tell you is, research at London’s Royal Hospital for Neuro-Disability found that nearly a fifth of the patients studied who were thought to be in irreversible comas eventually woke. Many remember being conscious of what was going on around them but were unable to communicate.’

‘How long will the process take?’

‘No one knows. It can take days, weeks, months even years. The longest persistent vegetative state is forty-two years. She may be in a vegetative state for long a time, or she may come out of it in the next few days.’

‘What is recovery? Will she just open her eyes one day and be well again?’

He makes an expression that can best be described as a facial shrug. ‘Recovery usually occurs gradually. In the first days, they are awake for a few minutes and the duration of time awake gradually increases. Some patients never progress beyond very basic responses. Others go on to live a totally normal life.’

‘Can she take a turn for the worst and … die?’

‘The most common cause of death for a person in a vegetative state is secondary infections, such as pneumonia which can occur in patients who lie for extended periods.’

The more he talks the more cold I feel.

I remember walking out of the little office we were in. I remember heading down the corridor. Using the lift. There are other people in it, but they are like shadows. The doors open. I get out with them. Another corridor. Reception room. People waiting in seats. Then into my view. Stella. She is hurrying towards me.

‘What did the doctor say?’ she asks. Her voice sounds like it is coming from underwater.

I shake my head and carry on walking.

‘What did the doctor fucking say?’ she screams at me.

I turn around. She looks quite ridiculous with her red hair and her crumpled clothes. Her hands are held open beseechingly. It’s a grand gesture, almost biblical in stature. Dahlia always laughingly said she was a drama queen of the highest order.

‘He said she’s in a coma that she might never wake up from,’ I say. My voice sounds normal, casual even.

Numbly, I watch her sink to the ground. A man goes to help her and I turn around and walk out of the hospital. Noah is outside. He must have seen me because he is holding the car park ticket.

‘Where to?’ he asks me.

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

We get into the car. ‘Want me to take you home?’

‘No.’

‘How about some food?’

‘No.’

‘Want a drink?’

It is ten o’clock in the morning and I haven’t slept all night. ‘Yeah.’

To my surprise he takes me to his home. A large apartment in Kensington overlooking the park. If I had been of a different mind I would have appreciated the luxurious décor and congratulated him on his taste. I would have been happy that all the little deals I passed his way have not been blown away on women and wine. But I’m not of a mind to think those things. I remain numb. From head to toe I can’t feel anything. I sit on his couch and watch him pour a large measure of brandy. He walks over and puts it in my hand.