Natalie Rule Extract from Beep, Drip Pump, a short story
I
’m seated on a bed in a narrow room at the Royal London Hospital. The space is functional, the walls are loaded with buttons, electrical sockets and cabinets containing medical supplies. The furnishing includes a sink, a variety of chairs, two computers, a long mirror and a beeping drip pump attached to my cephalic vein. It’s day two of my infusion therapy, which sounds like a production procedure involving herbal tisanes, only I’m the teabag. This morning I’ve swallowed a handful of pills and, direct to my veins, I’ve had antihistamines, antibiotics, half a drip bag of steroids, and soon, the drug which is supposed to stop my multiple sclerosis. A nurse enters the room. I clap my book closed and look up. It’s Nurse Lea; she clicks her tongue and inspects the bleating drip pump. Taking a pen from her top pocket, she coils the silicone rubber tube around it, letting it unwind, then, quick like a crow, flick, flick, flick, the back of her index finger snaps against the pipe. “Machine problems?” I ask. “Yes, too big bubbles can cause embolism,” Nurse Lea says. Her brown eyes narrow above her surgical mask. Her long hair is pulled off her face and tied just above her neck. I watch her repeatedly flick the large air bubbles into smaller ones. The successive clicking of her nail against the silicone tube combs the machine’s mechanical beep, creating a hospital rhythm of beep, flick, beep, flick. “That’s rare though.” Nurse Lea says. “Most bubbles in veins exit in patients’ lungs.” She meets my eyes. “Ok.” I nod, inspecting the tube. The beeping has stopped. Like fizz in lemonade, the bubbles are now small and flirty.
natalie rule
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