Sum Days

A sharp pain darting across her left hip bone drew a groan. Phoebe moved a hand down under the covers to soothe it, though she knew it wouldn't help. The fall, four years ago broke her hip, and in between she suffered a stroke and lost the use of her right arm. Ever since she had been in and out of bed, mostly in. The other week, Matty brought his family, and their families around for great grandma's eighty-eighth birthday. Phoebe looked across at the dresser. `Double lucky,’ said a Chinaman on a card. They had all grown so, from whenever she last saw them. She recognized some of the kids in their adult faces. Matty looked older, more lines in his face, thinner and with a stoop. She hoped he was eating properly, now that Enid, his wife was gone. She didn’t see them very often. Lives of their own. A chill passed across her shoulders. Phoebe pulled the fluffy white collar of her dressing gown across her chest. Light soon. Thirty-two thousand, one hundred and twenty-seven.

When the kids were growing up, she was always doing - cooking, cleaning, washing, dressing, teaching, correcting and guiding them. They filled her life with their budding lives which eventually outgrew her, like the plumbago over the front fence. The result, in the fine people her sons and daughter turned out to be, vindication of a life well and usefully spent. Should be satisfied. Her head settled in the pillow.

She rubbed hands together and kneaded fingers and thumbs to stimulate circulation. An arthritic ache in the second last finger of her right hand started up. She gritted her teeth until it settled into the background pain of general physical malaise. Moving about, doing simple things like the shopping, she missed. She used the community services bus, with all the other ladies. She enjoyed chatting with them, interacting in their lives, discussing everything under the sun. Cut off, separated from everyone, stuck here immobile, unable to affect anything or anyone were grounds for feeling lonely and bored, but she would not concede.

Phoebe heard a key turning and the front door open. It would be Ginger, her morning care-nurse. Poor dear, last she heard Ginger's brother was in trouble with the law, and she was terribly worried. She wanted to tell Ginger that, that it would be, all right. Phoebe looked at the big numbers of her clock – eight oh five.

Joanie’s familiar face and blonde ponytail poked around the door. “Morning, Phoebe. Sleep well? Jees, was cold last night.”

“Joanie! You're back. I thought you were Ginger. I was warm enough.” Little too warm, truth be known.

“I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll just drop this stuff in the kitchen.”

“Where have you been, dear?” asked Phoebe. “I missed you.”

“I went to India for my holidays, remember?” Joanie raised her voice to just below a shout. “It was wonderful, Phoebe. Fantastic places, people and food, so different. When I come next, I’ll bring some snaps I took to show you." Joanie appeared in the doorway. "Now, what would you like to do first, bathroom or breakfast?”

“Bathroom, please.” Phoebe remembered some things and forgot others, but she never dwelt on it, and had passed the stage of pretending or excuse.

Joanie flipped back the covers and taking hold of her legs swung them around off the bed. Joanie took her up in a gentle, though strong and firm grip under her arms, and lowered her into the wheelchair. In Joanie's confident hands, she was at ease. Unlike Samantha, who rushed and grabbed her too tight, maybe because she was under strength. Or Maisie, just the opposite, who didn't know her own strength, and tended to throw her about.

"You had a birthday, Phoebe. Happy Birthday. Eighty-eight, and many more I hope."

"Thank you, Joanie. Little Anthony, my great-grandson, eight, clever as a whip, whispers in my ear that he has worked out I have been alive for thirty-two thousand and one hundred and twenty days. And gives me a big smile like he's done me a favour."

Joanie laughed and helped Phoebe sit on the toilet. Easier, this morning - must be the pears. When she completed her ablutions, Joanie wiped her bottom. Joanie then helped her to the shower, and with Phoebe seated in a plastic chair, washed her, assisted her out, dried her, did her hair and dressed her for the day. Once Phoebe was seated in her chair in the sunroom, in front of the TV, Joanie brought her breakfast and medications. Around nine-thirty most days, Joanie would be off to her next client.

At twelve-thirty, Millie, the care-worker arrived to make her lunch and do any cleaning or washing that needed doing. Millie's mother was gravely ill and in hospital, and Phoebe knew Millie was very worried about her. Phoebe, her vision restricted to the spectrum of the TV, could hear Millie in the kitchen banging a mop into the skirting. Washing the floor.

"How's your mother, Millie?"

The sound of the backdoor banging reached her. Must be puttin' the washing out.

Mille was gone by two and at six, Joyce arrived. Phoebe noticed the hunch in the young woman's frame, and the tiredness about her eyes.

"Been a hard day, dear? You look worn out."

Joyce paused, hand on hip as if making an assessment. "I've had better, Phoebe. How was your day?"

Phoebe gave a self-deprecating smile, which Joyce acknowledged. "Oh, you know, dear. Nothing out of the ordinary. Joanie's back from her holiday in India, and Millie . . . Millie is not very talkative. She must have had bad news about her mother, I think."

"That's no good. I feel sorry for her. I went through the same thing with my mother. Sometimes I bump into her as we exchange shifts, but I don't usually get to talk to her." Joyce bit the inside of her lip. "What would you like for tea, Phoebe? I can cook you up a lamb chop and some mashed potatoes and peas, that suit you? Or, I could heat up one of those curried prawn and rice meals, for you?".

Phoebe sucked on her teeth and clenched her lips. "The chop sounds nice. Could you cut it up small for me?"

Joyce frowned at the unnecessary request. "Of course."

Half an hour later, Joyce entered the room and placed the tray of food across her lap. "There you go. I didn't overcook the chop, so it should be soft."

"Thank you. Looks good to me."

"All right. You enjoy. I'll just get your pills together, and get you some water."

After dinner, Joyce washed up, and then assisted Phoebe into a nightie. By seven-thirty Phoebe was tucked up in bed, wide awake and waiting hopefully for sleep to claim her, which usually happened somewhere between nine-thirty and one a.m..

Phoebe woke at six, and waited patiently for Joanie to arrive. This'll be . . . thirty-two thousand, one hundred and twenty-eight. She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them the clock said it was ten o’clock. She wondered if Joanie had been in an accident. Phoebe didn’t want to wet the bed. At eleven, a big, muscular woman who introduced herself as Andrea, opened her bedroom door.

“Joanie called in sick today, Phoebe. I’ll be looking after you this morning.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. What is wrong with her?”

“Don’t know. Said she had a fever and felt crook, and she is going to the doctor today.” Andrea threw back the bedcovers, and grasping Millie’s legs slid them over the edge of the bed. “Here we go. Put your arms around my neck. Wish I could get some time off - could do with the rest.”

When Millie arrived, and Joyce later that evening, Phoebe told them her news about Joanie being sick. Neither woman was aware of this, but assured her, that it was probably just a cold, and that she wasn’t to worry. Joanie would be back on deck, before she knew it.

Despite daily assurances, Joanie never returned. It wasn’t until the following week, that Joyce informed her that Joanie was very ill. They believed she had picked up some bug in India, and it would take time for her to recover. On Tuesday, Joyce failed to appear, and another care-worker Alison arrived to make her evening meal and prepare her for bed.

“Where’s Joyce? Joyce always makes my dinner.”

“Joyce is sick. I’ll be replacing her for a while.”

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Phoebe. “I hope she’s alright.”

“I don’t know,” said Alison. “They didn’t tell me. I wouldn’t worry, though Phoebe, she’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Now, what would you like for tea? I could do some sausages and vegies, would you like that?”

“That’ll be fine, dear,” said Phoebe. "Could I have a cup of tea, first, please. I'm dying for a cup of tea."

The next morning, Andrea didn’t arrive until eleven, by which time Phoebe had wet the bed. Andrea helped her out of bed, into the shower. Once Phoebe was clean and dry, and sitting comfortably in her chair, Andrea proceeded to change the sheets.

“Millie is off sick now. That’s why I’m late. They were ringing around to find a replacement, but we’re a bit short-handed. Quite a few are off sick at the moment.”

“Goodness me,” said Phoebe. “What’s wrong with Millie?”

“I don’t know, Phoebe," Andrea answered wearily. "They didn’t tell me. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about." Andrea patted her wrist. "Now let’s get you dressed, and I’ll get you something to eat. You must be starving.”

Alison due to arrive at five, didn’t show. Phoebe checked her clock to make sure it was working. She waited patiently, and through her curtains saw the view outside get gradually dark, and the street lights come on. At seven-thirty, Phoebe was surprised to see Andrea return.

“I’m sorry, Phoebe. Alison is off sick too, now. They’re falling like flies. I’ll get you something to eat and get you into bed for the night.”

“There must be something going around, and they’re all catching it.”

“You’re right there, we have four off sick at the moment.”

Thirty-two thousand, one hundred and forty dawned, and there was no Andrea, no Joanie and as the day progressed, no Millie, no Joyce and no Alison. Phoebe lay in her sodden, smelly bed, with a gnawing hunger and waited, but no one came. What has happened to them all? Hope they're okay. The cold urine stung her under and between her legs. How can they leave me like this? For as much as I care about them, they pay little heed of me. I am a chore, a job to them when it comes down to it. A necessary nuisance to get on. I don't matter anymore to anyone. I might as well not exist. She came to the conclusion, what she really wanted, unfairly, was to punish everyone for their vital lives. Doesn't help me.

Around ten, the following day, a tall woman with her blonde hair swept up and tucked under her little blue nurses hat, and a handsome, swarthy, dark-haired man arrived.

"Phoebe," said the man from the doorway. "I am Doctor Morton, and this is Ingrid from the Home Care Service."

"I don't know you. Doctor Tang is my doctor."

"I know. You might have noticed that a number of your carers have been off sick. They have an infectious disease and we are here to make sure you are all right. As a precaution we are going to put on masks and gloves. Ok?"

"Goodness me. All right, please come in. I've got to get out of this bed."

"Let me help you." Ingrid assisted her out of bed, and into the bathroom where she stripped her down and to Phoebe's relief showered her thoroughly. Dressed in a fresh nightie and sitting back in her chair, Ingrid rolled her into the bedroom.

"Here we are. Fresh and clean, Doctor," said Ingrid and immediately set to removing the soiled linen from the bed.

"Thank you, Ingrid. I feel much better." Phoebe smiled at Doctor Morton seated across from her and he smiled back at her. His skin was smooth and youthful, eyes hazel and bright. Young - everyone is so young these days.

"Are you going to give me a checkup?”

“Something like that, Phoebe. I want to take a blood sample, if that’s okay?”

“You think there’s something wrong?”

“How have you been feeling, Phoebe? Have you noticed any changes? Have you been running a fever, coughing?” With the thumb and index finger of his left hand he felt for swelling of the lymph glands either side of her jaw.

“Oh, I can’t complain. I coughed the other day, and I sneeze every morning. The usual aches and pains. No fever though.”

"Can I have a listen to your chest?"

Phoebe twisted her lips and unbuttoned the top of her nightie.

"Thank you." He applied a stethoscope to her chest, and back.

“I’ve had chicken pox. When I was a kiddie.”

“No, not chicken pox.” He grinned. “I can't hear any congestion. Let me have a look at your tongue.”

Dutifully, Phoebe stuck out her tongue, and the doctor looked closely, and pressed it with a little flat stick.

“Is it tender, Phoebe?” he asked.

“No, feels alright.” Not the normal run of things to have a doctor examine her out of the blue, without request, without her being ill. “What’s going on?”

“Not sure just yet, Phoebe. Need to do some tests first. Can you roll up your sleeve?”

The doctor swabbed her arm carefully inserted the needle. As usual, Phoebe watched fascinated as the small vial filled with her red blood. A second vial followed, and after that the doctor removed the needle and placed a small circular sticking plaster on her arm.

"Thank you, Phoebe. Ingrid will look after you for the next couple of days."

"What would you like to eat, Phoebe?"

"You know what I fancy, pancakes. You know how to make pancakes? Do we have any fresh cream?"

"Well, I . . .ah . . ."

"No. Then, Weetbix will do, dear." Phoebe smiled.

When Ingrid entered the bedroom the next day, she was wearing a facemask and rubber gloves.

“What’s got into you?” asked Phoebe.

“Infection control. I wore a mask yesterday, remember. Just in case you have something catchy,” answered Ingrid.

“Is there something you’re not tellin’ me? What about that blood, your doctor mate took yesterday?”

“Doctor Morton. If I knew something, I’d tell you, promise Phoebe. The test results aren’t back yet.”

“Well, is he going to ring me, let me know the results?” Phoebe sat forward.

“I’m sure he will.”

“Even if I’m okay?”

“Yes, even if you’re okay.”

“I won’t know unless he rings me. I wouldn’t know what was wrong with me. I should be told if he does tests.” She laid back against the pillow.

“I’ll get him to ring you, okay.”

Ingrid left around ten, but was back by one in the afternoon. She prepared lunch for Phoebe, and left to care for another client. She was back by five, to prepare Phoebe’s meal and put her to bed.

The morning of thirty-two thousand, one hundred and forty-four, Doctor Morton returned. He too wore a mask and sat on the end of her bed. “I got the test results back last night. You have tested positive to a new strain of influenza. H10N11 is what they've called it."

“Good Lord! But I don’t feel sick.”

“No, but you have acted as a carrier.”

“But I can’t hardly walk. I haven’t been out of this house in three years. How would I get it?”

“We think your carer, Joanie gave it to you. Originally, it was thought she was an isolated case, with the four others on her flight, but then, your other carer . . .”

“Millie?”

“Yes, Millie Johnson. She presented with strong symptoms. And then two days later Joyce and Andrea, came down with it.”

“Goodness me.” Phoebe shook her head. “I hope they’ll be alright.”

“Yesterday, we had to admit Alison to hospital and she is quarantined as well. None of the women had contact with each other. We couldn’t figure out how it was being transmitted. Then the penny dropped, and we realized the connection was you.”

“Me? I made all them girls sick? Because of me?”

“Yes, you. You picked it up off Joanie and gave it to the others. For some reason you are resistant to the virus. This is extremely rare and very fortunate. Your blood will help develop a vaccine. And unlike previous cases, any genetic material used will be acknowledged. So I suppose we owe you a thank you."

"But what about me?"

"You’ll be fine. You are immune, unlike everyone else.”

She looked at the doctor and smiled. “Haitch-en, whatnot. They could call it Phoebe Flu, eh Doc?”

"It's certainly got a ring to it. I'll suggest it."

"You watch, it'll catch on, one day," said Phoebe and laughed.