Surviving together

 A couple of hours later, I was in bed about to fall asleep when she called again. “Hello?” there was no reply at first, just the sound of traffic. Then eventually: “I’ve done something stupid” she cried softy. Immediately I knew.

My heartbeat seemed to slow, I felt sick, my mind was racing with questions.  “How many have you taken?” I asked straining to hide my panic.

“Where are you?”

She said she didn’t know exactly. She was in an alleyway, somewhere in Kings Cross.

“How many? How many did you take?”

“It’s fine, really, I’m fine, about forty I think. It’s fine, it’s fine.”

“I coming, don’t move, just stay put.”

I ordered a taxi and quickly got dressed. Looking back, I have no idea why I didn’t call an ambulance. In the panic and confusion, I almost believed that it wasn’t that bad. I wanted it to all be ok.

In the taxi I anxiously started doing wild calculations in mind. How bad is forty? How many is enough to kill a person? She took over a hundred last time.

I called NHS direct. As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realised how ridiculous they sounded, “She’s taken forty paracetamol,” I started to cry, “how bad is it? Can I take her home to bed?” I didn’t need a response, I knew the answer. The taxi driver glanced at me in the in the mirror.

When I got to Kings Cross I jumped out of the taxi and ran through the freezing streets, phone glued to my ear, Sam trying her best to direct me to where she was.  

When I eventually found her we sobbed in each others arms and she begged me not to call anyone. She didn’t want her family to go through it all again. She wanted to go home. For one crazy minute, I almost agreed with her. Maybe we could go home, go to sleep, no one would ever need to know. She started to vomit white liquid and I realised there was no way either of us were going home that night.

I took her to A&E where a receptionist cast us a weary look when I explained what had happened. “What did she do that for?” she asked accusingly. Fury and rage boiled up inside me. I wanted to scream “how the f*ck should I know? Just get her a f*cking doctor!” but I didn’t, I just shrugged helplessly. “How can you possibly know she’s really taken forty?” she went on. Sam staggered off to vomit into a nearby toilet.

I emptied Sam’s handbag silently onto the desk, empty bottles and packets fell out. I looked at her pleadingly, too exhausted to speak, or argue.  

With a sigh and a raise of her eyebrow she started barking questions, never once taking her eyes off the computer screen. “What’s her address? postcode? Date of birth, what GP is she registered with?” while I ran back and forward from the toilet relaying answers.

The next few hours went by in a blur of drips, needles, vomit, blood, nurses and doctors. Sam kept asking if she could go home. Eventually the doctor said firmly, “I think you better be quiet let us get on with saving your life first.”

Every nurse and doctor who saw us that night kept asking the same thing, why? It seemed like such a ridiculous question to me, where on earth to begin? I told them her relationship had recently broken down, but it sounded so petty, so silly. Of course that wasn’t why. It might have helped to trigger it, but she did it because she is ill. She has been ill for years, life-threateningly ill, but had still never been offered any meaningful treatment. Only now that she was lying in a hospital bed, with the physical manifestation of her mental illness clear for all to see, they seemed to finally realise how serious it was.  

By early morning things had calmed down, Sam had stabilised and was asleep. I’d convinced her to let me contact her sister, but she made me promise I’d tell her in person, not on the phone. I turned up on her sister’s doorstep at 6am. As soon as she opened the door and saw my face, she knew.

“She’s alive, she’s ok, she’s going to be ok” was all I could say as she collapsed in the doorway sobbing.

A funny thing happened over the next few days. I started to realise that I wasn’t upset. What was wrong with me? Then I realised I couldn’t feel anything, just numb. I couldn’t feel sad, or happy or anything at all. I felt like a switch had been turned off.

I wondered, somewhat dramatically, if my emotions would ever come back. They did of course, just a few days later. And that’s when it really hit home, that’s the difference between her and me. While life’s ups and downs leave me pretty much unscathed, for her every negative comment, every tiny criticism or failure she feels like a physical pain.

Sometimes it all gets too much. She get’s tired of fighting just to get out of bed, fighting to be normal.

I’m grateful every day that she found the strength to pick up the phone. That’s the thing about Sam, she thinks she’s weak, but in fact, she’s stronger than I’ll ever be. It takes so much courage to reach out when you’re at your lowest ebb, I’m so proud of her for knowing she could trust me.

She fought for her life that night and continues to fight every day. I’m so thankful she did, because she’s the best friend you could ever have.