HOSPITAL WARD
GUY lies in a coma. Another bed is occupied by GUNTER,
who appears to be in a similar unconscious state. The room is quiet, save for
the soft beeping of Guy’s heart monitor. JANE enters.
JANE:
Guy, my darling Guy, it’s me... Jane. I’m here, just like I
promised I’d be, every day, until you wake up. How are you today? I won’t
pretend it’s been easy, Guy. Each morning, I rise. Because I have to, because I
choose to, because I believe—hope—that one day, you’ll come back to me. But I
can’t help but feel that with each passing day, a part of me is withering away,
rotting in this chair. The loneliness, Guy, it’s indescribable. The silence
echoes in the emptiness of our home, in our bed, where I lie awake, yearning
for your warmth. I’m trying to be strong... but some days, I’m just pretending,
hoping somehow to make it through to the next morning. I’ve struggled with
fear, with separation, with the daunting reality of facing life without you.
There were days I felt so lost that I couldn’t see a way out. So here, in this
quiet, I speak my apologies into the space between us, hoping somehow, they
reach you. I have to believe that somewhere, beneath the stillness, you can
feel me, hear me; that you remember the moments we shared together.
(to the fourth wall)
A driver collided with our world. Guy, my husband, managed
the extraordinary feat of stepping off the pavement at just the wrong moment. A
car, too fast, too distracted, turned our life into this drama. Only, in our
version, the hero doesn’t wake up with a start. No, my Guy is more the silent
type these days. The doctors use terms like “traumatic brain injury” as if I
might find comfort in the certainty of a label. I don’t. I find comfort in
talking to Guy about the mundane; did he know the Hendersons’ cat finally got
stuck in their own tree? Irony, Guy loves irony. I sit with him, you know,
every day. I read to him, talk to him about everything and nothing. I tell him
about the Jammie Dodger shortage at the supermarket as if it’s headline news.
And sometimes, I swear, I see a flicker, a sign he’s there, trapped in his own
head, screaming about the absurdity of Jammie Dodger shortages in supermarkets.
I’ve found myself bargaining with every deity I can think of, promising a
lifetime of good deeds for a single moment of clarity from him. I’d even tell
him the truth about the Christmas vase from Aunt Muriel he thought was lost. I’ve
become quite the conversationalist, speaking into the void, filling the silence
with words. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You talk, even if it’s just
to the walls, because the alternative is silence, and the silence is
unbearable. And maybe, just maybe, my words will be the lifeline that guides
him back. Until then, I’ll be here, talking even when I’m not sure if anyone is
listening.
(to Guy)
Remember the time you surprised me with that picnic in the
living room because the park was closed? You had it all laid out, the blanket,
the basket, even those little candles you were so proud of finding. We made a
toast to indoor adventures and drank until we could barely move. I was
rummaging through the attic last Tuesday. You remember, our shared vault of “we’ll
sort it later” treasures and I found an old picture of us in Brighton. I
remember we were seeking out the best fish and chips. We found it, though, didn’t
we? Tucked away in that little alley, the one that smelled of salt and vinegar.
You said it was the best you’d ever had. I agreed, but between you and me, it
was being with you that made them taste so good. We spent that night
walking along the beach, sharing our dreams under the stars. There we were,
utterly lost but utterly content, discovering hidden corners of the place and
each other. Every word came straight from your heart promising a lifetime of
adventures together. And then there was the rain. We danced in it, like two
fools pretending to be Gene Kelly. You spun me round and round until we
collapsed, laughing, into that massive puddle on the promenade. We were
drenched, utterly soaked, and happy. But here’s the secret I’ve never shared:
as we walked back along the beach, hand in hand, I found a small, smooth stone.
It was nothing special, just a piece of quartz, but it sparkled in the night. I
slipped it into my pocket, a solid piece of that perfect, fleeting moment. I’ve
kept that stone with me every day since. It’s here with me now. These shared
moments remind me of us, of who we are beyond this... silence. So, I’ll keep
sharing these memories with you, my love. Even if you can’t respond, I know you’re
listening. These stories, our stories, they’re the breadcrumbs leading you back
home to me. And I’ll be here, waiting, reminiscing, until we can create new
memories together again.
(to the fourth wall)
I can’t do this. I thought I could, but every day feels like
I’m sinking further and there’s no one to pull me out. I tell myself, “just get
through today,” but the days stretch on, endless, each one a mirror of the
last. And Guy, my dear Guy, is trapped in his silent world, unreachable,
leaving me to navigate this darkness alone. Everyone says, “you’re so strong,” “you’re
doing so well.” But they don’t see this, do they? The nights spent in tears,
the days filled with a hollow emptiness that consumes everything. Strength? It’s
a façade I hide behind because the truth is too much to bear. I miss him. Not
just the man he was before the accident, but the life we shared, the future we
dreamed of. And the silence. It’s suffocating. I used to relish moments of
quiet, but now it’s a constant reminder of his absence. I talk to him, to the
empty space on the sofa he once filled, but my own voice is a reminder of how
alone I am. They say grief is the price we pay for love, but no one warns you
about the weight of it, how it can crush you, leave you gasping for air in the
middle of the night.
(to Guy)
Dinner for one, a solo walk, and lying next to an empty half
of the bed are normal for me now. Although hope and despair have become my new housemates.
Hope wanders about with a suitcase full of “what ifs” and “soon maybes,” while despair
tends to slouch in the corner, mumbling “what’s the point?” into his tea. They
don’t get on, you see. I’m caught in the middle. Oh yes, and guilt. Every time
I laugh or enjoy a moment of sunshine, guilt is there, reminding me, “Should
you be feeling this when Guy is lying there?” But in the midst of this crowd,
there’s love. It’s what turns my feet towards the hospital each day, even when
hope and despair are having one of their squabbles. And when you wake, we’ll
laugh about this, won’t we? About how I became such good friends with loneliness,
hope, despair, and guilt. But mostly, how love never once left the room. As for
me, apparently I’m glue that holds things together. Or so I’ve been told. Glue
that feels decidedly less adhesive these days. All the while, cooking meals
that go uneaten and maintaining routines that feel increasingly hollow. But
that’s okay, because this is all an opportunity for “personal growth”, or so said
a rather nice counsellor chap with a bald head. Personal growth, now there’s a
term that always seemed a bit lofty to me, something for self-help books and
weekend retreats. Yet, here I am, a veritable case study. It’s funny, isn’t it?
Not “ha-ha” funny, more like “Alanis Morissette ironic” funny, how personal
growth’s most profound lessons are often those we’d never choose. I’ve become
somewhat of a philosopher, you see. Not by choice, but by circumstance.
Contemplating the nature of existence between hospital visits and microwave
meals. I’ve wrestled with questions I never thought to ask, faced fears I didn’t
know I had. And in the midst of it all, I’ve discovered strengths - like being
able to cry on a crowded bus without garnering too much attention. I’ve also
mastered the art of solitude. Except, of course, being near the ticking of that
dreadful cuckoo clock you brought back from Geneva. I’m convinced it speeds up
just to taunt me. But it’s not all existential dread and ticking clocks. No,
this journey’s had its share of revelations. Like learning that love isn’t just
a feeling; it’s an action, a choice made in the quiet moments, in the steadfast
refusal to give up hope. So here I stand, or rather sit, a somewhat unwilling
pilgrim on the path to self-discovery. I’ve learned to navigate the world on my
own, to find joy in the small victories, and to keep talking, even when it
feels like I’m only speaking to the walls. Because one day, I hope, you’ll talk
back. And I’ll keep dreaming, for both of us, until you’re here to dream with
me once more. Our future, now I see, is not a place or an event. It’s us,
simply being, together. A future where every day is an adventure because it’s
shared with you. Perhaps our grandest adventure lies not in the peaks we
conquer but in the valleys we navigate together, in the everydayness of our
shared life. So, I will dream a different dream for us. One where our future is
not measured by the stamps in our passports but by the mornings we wake up next
to each other, by the nights we fall asleep mid-conversation. Though lately, it’s
been more of a monologue than a dialogue. Guy, bless you, you haven’t been much
for conversation since the accident. But does that stop me? Of course not. I’ve
become quite adept at talking to myself. With you listening, of course, my
darling.
(to the fourth wall)
I tell him everything and anything. How the azaleas he
planted are blooming, or how Mrs. Jenkins next door has taken to singing opera
in the early hours. It’s our little soap opera, broadcast directly to his
bedside. I’d like to think he’s entertained, that somewhere in the silence, he’s
laughing with me. But it’s not just the trivialities of our days I share with
him. It’s the “I love yous”, the “we miss yous”, the “please come backs”. It’s
the reassurance that no matter how long this nightmare lasts, I’ll be here, making
sure the love finds its way to him. And it’s not a solitary endeavour, oh no.
The outpouring of love and support has been overwhelming. Cards, calls, visits,
each a lifeline, a chorus of voices joining mine in this one-way conversation. It’s
heartening, really, how it can take tragedy to draw out such warmth. They say
people live on in our memories, and I find that to be painfully, beautifully
true. Guy’s here with me, not just in this room, surrounded by machines and the
antiseptic smell of hospitals, but in who I am. Our stories, our memories, they’re
what bind us, weaving the fabric of our life together. And so I talk to him,
recounting our shared past, our dreams, our arguments over trivialities, as if
by sheer longing, I can bridge the gap between us.
(to Guy)
Here in this silence, I’m confronted by words unsaid, of
arguments paused mid-breath. Our last argument, the one before… this, it
lingers. I argue with shadows, defend myself to the echoes. It’s a peculiar
form of madness, isn’t it? Quarrelling with a memory. How do I argue with a man
who can no longer answer back? How do I resolve conflicts that have become
monologues? I believe in us, in the “us” that survives beyond the harsh words
and cold silences. I don’t know how to do this without you, Guy. They say time
heals, but it feels more like I’ve become used to the pain. You know, I keep
asking myself, would I be here, if things had ended differently between us? If
we had let go when every argument felt like the last straw, if we had agreed
that maybe love wasn’t enough to fix what was broken? And now, here I am,
clinging to your hand, praying for a miracle that feels like it might be too
late to even want. The guilt... it’s crushing me. Because part of me wonders if
I’m here just trying to make up for all the ways I failed you. I’m tired, Guy.
Tired of carrying this guilt. How I stormed out, leaving so many angry words
hanging in the air between us. If I had known it would be the last time, would
I have stayed? Or tried harder to understand, to forgive? But here I am, every day
and night, talking to you, hoping you can hear me, hoping you can forgive me
for the days I thought leaving was the easier choice. I wish it hadn’t taken
this to make me realise so clearly, I love you. But what if it’s too late? What
if all these nights, all these whispered apologies and confessions of love, are
just echoes in an empty room? What if you can’t hear me, can’t forgive me? It’s
my biggest fear; that I’ve lost you, not just to this coma, but to the mistakes
and misunderstandings that we let come between us.
(to the fourth wall)
They tell me you’re gone, that even if you wake, the man I
loved won’t be coming back. So, I smile, I nod, I go through the motions of
living. But inside, I’m numb. I go to work, I meet friends, I smile at them,
and all the while, I feel nothing. They say I must move on, that life has to go
on. So, I’ve tried, Guy. I’ve tried to step forward, one foot in front of the
other, but with each step, I’m like a
ghost wandering in the shadows of other people’s lives.
(to Guy)
Love is the determination to hold on to each other when
everything else is trying to pull you apart. I thought we had that kind of
love, Guy. I still want to believe we do. But I need a sign, something to show
me that you’re still in this with me. Please, Guy, fight. Fight to come back to
me. Don’t make me beg. I know I should be strong for us. And I am, Guy, I am.
But I need you to fight too. Fight to wake up, to come back to me, to us. I can’t
imagine a life without you in it. I’ll be back tomorrow, love. And every day
after that. You’re not alone, Guy. You’ll never be. I’ll be right here, waiting
for you... always. I love you.
(to the fourth wall)
In the midst of all this, the silence, the waiting, the not
knowing... I found myself seeking... no, craving some semblance of life. A
connection, a spark, something to remind me that I’m still alive, that there’s
still a world outside these hospital walls. I want to have children and the cuckoo
clock keeps ticking faster. And so, I made a decision, one evening, to not be
alone. To be with someone who isn’t you. It wasn’t about love, or even desire,
not really. It was about feeling something, anything, other than this crushing
emptiness. I told myself it was a moment of weakness, too many proseccos, a
fleeting lapse in judgement, but...
(to Guy)
I tried, you know. After the accident, after the silence and
the waiting became too much, I tried to move on. To forget about you, about us.
I thought... I thought it was the right thing to do, to live again, to be part
of the world that kept spinning without you. I’m sorry…
Jane leaves. Gunter, who had been motionless in the bed
next to Guy, stirs, and then, with a surprising burst of energy, gets out of
bed.