that one and it was no surprise to find soon afterwards the graphics that should have been on display had been fixed onto the glass wall. There haven’t been any headbutting-glass incidents since.
The other four first aid incidents have all concerned Lucy. To date I’ve dealt with her burning her hand, cutting her finger, accidentally stabbing her leg with a fork, and a low-grade electric shock.
I’m not sure today’s occurrence can be classified as a first aid incident. If you’ve been ill for several days, but insist on coming to work, does it mean I have to fill out a first aid form?
‘Pass me some tissues. Oh God, this is so awful.’
Lucy has been unwell for a week now. Today, she thought that being at home wasn’t making her feel any better so she is giving work a try. I really wish she hadn’t. Work is turning the nausea into a full-on vomiting session. This is all I need after the week I’m having.
‘Why did you come in?’
‘You knnnooowwww whhhyyy.’ Lucy cries dramatically into the toilet bowl.
‘I told you to go to the doctor’s.’ I sense that perhaps my bedside manner isn’t as sympathetic as it should be, but she should definitely be at the GP and not here.
‘And say what? That I feel a bit sick?’ Lucy cries some more.
‘I think you’ve gone up a level now.’ I’m tactful enough not to point out all the illnesses that have ‘nausea’ and ‘sickness’ on their list of symptoms as I have done several times during the week in my efforts to get Lucy to see a doctor. If she didn’t listen then, it doesn’t seem like a good time now to say that she should have.
‘You think?’
‘Let’s sort out getting you home.’
‘Howww cann I gettt hommme?’ The wail echoes out of the toilet bowl like a banshee is in residence. At least she’s gone with the theme of my week. Everyone’s worries are about getting home, or not, in Clive’s case.
‘A taxi?’
‘No taxi is going to take a puking woman!’
Ah. I’ve not really thought this through. And this is one of the eventualities the first aid course hasn’t covered… How to transport puking banshees.
‘Do you have any ideas?’ We always walk to work. Neither of us drive as we both like to be environmentally conscious where possible. The same is true of Lucy’s boyfriend, Rob.
Lucy answers by hurling into the toilet once more. The sound is enough to make my stomach turn.
In the end I call Rob. It’s not a complete relief when Lucy’s boyfriend and his dad come to pick her up. There’s the clean-up job that seems to fall to me for starters. There are more study participants due in later this afternoon for the drug trials that are taking place, so there isn’t the time to wait for a cleaner to sort it out.
It is the last thing I feel like doing, but at least it temporarily stops me from thinking about Clive and the secrets we now hold. That’s how it feels now he’s shown me his scar and said as much. There wasn’t a chance to discuss the stories that lay behind our marks before he was hauled off by an occupational therapist for a mock home visit in their department. The look of dread on his face is still with me.
As soon as I’m done clearing up, I’ll be glad to go to Tess’s for lunch and take the time to call George to find out how Clive’s occupational therapy visit went.
I go to the cleaning cupboard that is hidden away in the sleep lab. It’s a strange room within a room that is rarely in use, apart from by the cleaners to get their equipment. It’s otherwise used when studies require monitoring for twenty-four hours. None of the current research requires that level of data. It is basically an unused bedroom.
A thought strikes and I shake my head in dismissal. It’s a ridiculous notion and I concentrate on bleaching the bathroom within an inch of its life to help shift the idea.
When I reach the café it is too busy for Tess to sit with me and chat like usual, so instead I use the time to inform the relevant people that Lucy is off work again and to text her boyfriend to ensure she goes to see a medical professional. I emphasise that it isn’t normal to be feeling nauseous over a long period and for it to be getting worse rather