Day 202 - Opposites

 OPPOSITES

Prompt - Opposites : Write a poem or story that ties in together two opposites.

October 2019

Only her second Tinder date and was she nervous?  Of course she bloody was.  But she kept telling herself he would be too and it was always like this for everyone who'd ever been in this position and there probably people in this room who were feeling just the same and WHERE THE FUCK WAS HE?

Calm.  Deep breath.  You're looking good, he sounded keen, it's going to be fine.  She took another sip of wine, looked across the room and... that was him, wasn't it?  At least he looked as gorgeous as the photos.  No, maybe even better.

"Sarah?"

"Yeah, hi, you'll be Clyde then.  But you know that..."  He laughed.  Oh, thank fuck, he laughed.  It'll be OK.

And it was.  To start with.  They already knew they had a few things in common, so they talked about music and films and TV and how shit school had been and got on to what they were doing now.  He seemed interested in her nursing job, asked sensibe questions, hoped she'd not had to witness anything too 'grisly', winced at some of the stories from ICU.

"So what is it you do?"

"Was an accountant for a few years, but now I'm an intern for Gavin Stewart.  You know, the MSP?"

Sarah tried not to wince.  Gavin Stewart.  Tory.  And, even by their usual low standards, one of the most dishonest and amoral of the bunch.

"How did that come about?"

"Oh my dad's chair of the constituency party and he's hoping I can make a career in politics so this is a great way to learn the ropes.  Plus Gavin's a great guy and really gets ripped into that shitshow of a government we're stuck with.  Did you see him laying into Nicoliar last week?  Wonderful stuff.  I hope your not one of those Nat types, eh" and he laughed his jolly, hollow laugh.

The wince couldn't hide itself this time.  The face couldn't dissemble.  Sarah put her drink down.

"Well, I'm convinced Scotland will be able to be a better country if we can get away from the UK, and all that nasty right wing stuff they impose on us, so maybe you'd class me as one of your 'Nat types'?"

Clyde downed his pint, put the glass down, stood up.  "I don't think we need to take this any further, do you?"  And he walked off.  Leaving Sarah the drinks bill...

October 2020

She felt like she'd never been home, been to bed, had any time to herself, but here she was again, back at the hospital, back in the full glory of sweaty PPE gear, back looking through the lists of who was out, who was in.  ICU was still choked up, but at least they'd only had one more death while she'd been home, and three had gone to the wards for their recovery periods.  

She checked through the details of the four new cases.  All covid, all critical.  The third of the quartet made her sit up.  That name - there wouldn't be two, would there?  She finished her reading and walked along to see for herself.

Yes, that was the same Clyde McAllister she'd met, briefly, a year ago.  The same intern of the MSP who'd been the loudest in parliament, and, endlessly, the media, about the uselessness of lockdowns and masks and how much businesses needed to open up soon.  Who suggested, without ever saying anything that would get him into real trouble, that the impact of the virus was being exaggerated and this really was just a flu-like kind of thing.  Did Clyde still work for him?

It didn't matter.  He'd be treated like anyone else, with the same care, the same dedication, the same determination to get him out alive.  But she'd maybe keep a wee bit closer eye on this one that she might otherwise have.

He got worse.  For two days it seemed unlikely that he'd make it.  She found herself working longer hours, spending longer at his bedside, always checking.  As if her brain wanted to make sure that she didn't treat him any worse because of what she knew about him.  She was the first to spot that there was a reversal in his condition, that he'd suddenly started to improve, that maybe he'd make it.  Another two days and he was ready to leave ICU, well on his way to being discharged, albeit without any clear idea if he would have longer term symptoms.  She felt as much relief as she would for any other of her patients who'd made such a comeback, but also a strange mix of pride and shame that she'd helped a tory.

After three days on the ward Clyde was sitting up and eager to talk.  He asked the nurses their names, but struggled to recognise them again in their masks and aprons.  He asked who he should be thanking for his survival.  Doctor Spencer was the obvious candidate, but he said it was the nursing staff who'd been responsible for his recovery.  Especially the ICU nurses.  Especially, now he thought about it, Sarah, who'd given him more attention than most.  Maybe it was her he should be thanking if he really needed to say it to someone.

Sarah heard that he was asking to see her.  Did she want to?  She usually enjoyed seeing her patients off, knowing she'd had a part in their being able to leave, but how did she feel about Mr McAllister?  Part of her wanted to hear what he'd have to ay, and he wouldn't be able to recognise her anyway, so why not?

"Hi, I'm Sarah, I was told you wanted to say something to me?"

"Oh hi, I just wanted to thank you for all you did for me and just being able to walk out of here.  I was told it was all getting a bit dodgy and you did more than anyone to get me through it.  So I just wondered if there was anything I could do for you?"  He sounded short of breath after such a long speech.

"Do?"  She had no desire to make this easy for him.

He took a deep breath, coughed, and began again.  "Well I do have some influence in parliament, but I guess that's not really helpful to you, it it?  I could maybe take you out for a meal though, once I get my fitness back?"

"And you'd pay this time, would you?"

"This time...?"  He stopped when he got a proper look at her name badge.  Sarah Kozlowski.  An ICU nurse.  Oh...  

"Maybe you could use your 'influence' to get your boss to stop insinuating that this bloody virus is  bit like the flu eh?  And suggest to him that if we didn't have lockdowns and mask wearing and social distancing you probably wouldn't be alive to tell him, because we'd have been overwhelmed.  Totally overwhelmed.  We came so close at times, so close."  She sobbed back a desire to cry, but the emotion in her voice had already had impact.  "If you really want to be grateful that's what you could try doing, because otherwise your thank-yous are about as meaningful as all that fucking clapping."

He stared at her, conscious that it was no longer his breathing that prevented the words coming out.  Clyde McAllister cried.  Sarah stood looking, still too angry to feel any professional shame at reducing a patient to tears.  She had turned away when he found his voice.

"I will.  I promise, I will.  You saved my life Sarah Kozlowski.  What else can I do?"

She nodded.  "OK.  I hope you do.  And I hope you make a full recovery.  Take care."  She left.  

Would he do what he'd said?  She'd no idea.  Never trust a tory...