Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“Come home with me and maybe I’ll let you do just that,” James adds with a wicked glint in his eye.
“I can’t. I’m meeting my brother to discuss-” Shit. “Stuff.”
“To discuss me.”
“No. Not really. I mean, well, I just…”
“It’s okay, Theodore. I’m glad you have someone that you can talk to about this, because sometimes I won’t be able to.”
His words hit me like a punch to the stomach.
“He’s a doctor. I’m sure he’ll be able to address any questions you have.” James knows all about Tom, my whole family in fact. Whenever we talk about his family, somehow he always manages to switch the attention back to mine. “Maybe call me when you get home? If you want to of course.”
“I will want to,” I say, missing the sound of his voice already.
“Can I at least walk you to your car? Or does that imply you’re fucking your boss?”
“Fuck off,” I spit, my smile betraying the impact of my insult. “I’ll meet you at the lift.”
First, I need to tidy away the files I’ve been digging through.
**********
At the hospital, I wait in the staffroom for Tom after introducing myself to one of the nurses. I’ve been here for an hour so far. I’ve checked Facebook, Twitter, and Digital Spy for any interesting celebrity gossip, and now I’m comparing the length of my fingers on both hands to see if they match.
“Hey, Theo.”
I look up to see Tom bustling through the door, his green scrubs smeared with blood. My inquisitive mind wonders whose blood it is, what caused it, if they survived.
“RTA,” Tom says, opening one of the metal lockers at the other side of the room. He steps out of his dirty scrubs and tosses them in what looks like a bin on wheels.
“They okay?”
Plucking a clean set of scrubs out of the locker, he throws them on quickly. “He’s in surgery. Doesn’t look good though.”
His answer stuns me a little, even though I don’t know the poor guy. “How do you deal with it? Death, right in front of you every day. How do you just…switch off?”
“I don’t,” he says, pulling out a chair from under the white table I’m sitting at. Taking a seat, he runs a hand through his hair. It’s the same shade of brown as mine. In fact, we look similar in a lot of ways, except I’m a couple of inches shorter and he has blue eyes. “It’s never easy, but it’s the job. And when you save someone, when you get to give their family the good news, it makes it all worthwhile.”
I’m a little in awe of my brother right now. Of course I know what he does for a living, but it’s not something we’ve ever really talked about before. It makes me realise we’ve never talked about anything significant. He’s always just been my sleazy older brother who takes the piss out of me at every available opportunity. But here, he looks so professional and intelligent. Seeing the blood on his clothes makes it hit me that my brother saves fucking lives.
“I’m proud of you, Tom.” The words fall from my mouth without permission from my brain.
“Steady on, T. I’m not sure I’m ready to take our brotherly bond to the next level.”
“I’m serious. Your job…it’s important. You’re important. People literally put their lives in your hands.”
“What’s going on? Something’s bothering you.”
“I’m fine,” I lie with the straightest face I can manage. “I just came to pick your doctor brain.”
“About?”
“Bipolar disorder.” His expression turns quizzical so I quickly tack on, “It’s research.”
“You’re still writing?”
I’m not overly surprised by his question. As with most things, it’s not something we usually discuss. “Never stopped.”
“It’s not my field, but I can try and answer any questions you have.”
Right, okay. Where do I begin? “Is there a reason for it? I mean, does something trigger it?”
“Possibly.” Tom shrugs. “The cause isn’t fully understood. Genetics can play a part, as can chemical imbalances in the brain. But it’s an illness, like cancer or epilepsy. It’s no one’s fault. Sometimes, it just…happens.”
“So, if it’s a chemical imbalance, they can fix it, right? With chemicals. Medication. Replace the ones that are missing?”
Looking unsure, Tom clicks his tongue. “Mood stabilisers do as the name says. They lower the highs, elevate the lows. It’s important to find the right one. Everyone reacts differently. Then there’s therapy, counselling, learning how to take care of yourself, lifestyle changes.”
Does James see a therapist? I suppose he must.
“It can be an unpredictable illness. Manic or depressive relapses aren’t uncommon, which is why therapy is so important. It enables someone to recognise the warning signs so they can seek help before things get out of control.”
Nodding slowly, I absorb the information. “What are the warning signs?”
“I can’t say, Theo. Everyone is different, and their warning signs might be unique to them.”
“You can give me examples, surely?”
Tom pushes a puff of air through pursed lips while he thinks. I don’t like the word unpredictable. I need to know what I’m dealing with, what James is dealing with.
“Signs of mania can include restlessness, often high levels of creativity or productivity, what seems like a rise in ego, self importance, invincibility, recklessness…”
He could well be describing James, but his illness is under control. Although, invincibility? When he climbed up on that wall he was fearless, stupidly so. “But a person can be like that without being ill though. Can’t they?”
“Some people are arseholes regardless of their mental health if that’s what you mean.”
Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. James is definitely an arsehole – cocky, arrogant, patronising…but I love him.
“Irritability, sometimes violence can be signs, too. It’s not always a case of being off your tits happy.”
“And what about the depression?”
Tom’s expression confuses me. He looks almost concerned and, given that we’re talking hypothetically, I can’t figure out why.
“Lethargy, lack of interest in things they usually enjoy, feelings of hopelessness, becoming withdrawn-”
“And how would I-someone recognise that?”
“That depends on how good they are at hiding it. Some people will talk, get help, others will keep it all inside. It can be a very devious illness for some people. They either don’t recognise they have a problem or they don’t want to. That could be because they’re ashamed, they think it’ll go away on its own, or they feel worthless and like they don’t deserve help.” Tom shrugs. “Again, everyone is different, and everyone diagnosed should be treated as such.”