The World According to Bob

I was prescribed an anti-coagulant that is used a lot to thin the blood of potential stroke victims. But I didn’t pay any attention to the leaflet that came with it. It didn’t occur to me that there might be side effects.

A few nights after I started taking the tablets, I got up at around 5am to go to the toilet. Outside it was pitch black, but there was just about enough light in the flat for me to find my way to the bathroom and back. As I walked down the corridor I could feel something trickling down my thigh. I turned on a light and was horrified to see that my leg was covered in blood. When I got back into my room and switched on the lights, I saw that the sheets of my bed were soaked red as well.

Bob had been fast asleep in the corner, but woke up. He could tell there was something wrong and shot up to stand at my side.

I had no idea what was happening. But I did know that I had to get myself to a hospital — and fast. I threw on a pair of jeans and a jumper and ran out of the flat, heading towards Tottenham High Road where I figured I had a chance of catching a bus.

When I got to UCH, they admitted me immediately. I was told that the anti-coagulant had thinned my blood to such an extent that it had started bleeding from the pores of the weakened skin where I used to inject myself.

I was kept in for two days while they sorted out my medication. They eventually settled on another drug, which wouldn’t have the same effect. That was the good news. The bad news was that I’d have to inject it into my stomach myself for a period of up to six months.

Having to inject myself was awful, for all sorts of reasons. To begin with it was painful, injecting directly into my stomach muscles. I could feel the contents of the syringe entering the tissue. Secondly, it was another reminder of my past. I hated the prospect of having a syringe and a needle as part of my daily life once more.

Worst of all, however, it didn’t work.

Even after I’d been injecting myself with the new drug for a couple of weeks, my leg was no better. I couldn’t walk more than two paces, even with the crutches. I was now beginning to despair. Once again, I began to imagine losing my leg altogether. I went back to UCH and explained the situation to one of the doctors I’d seen previously.

‘We’d better have you back in for a week. I’ll check to see what the bed situation is right now,’ he said, picking up the phone.

I wasn’t best pleased about it. It meant I’d not be able to work and I’d already lost two days in hospital. But I knew that I simply couldn’t carry on in this condition. I was told that they had a bed the following day. So I went home that night and explained the situation to Belle. She agreed to look after Bob, which was a huge comfort for me. I knew he was happy there. The following morning I got up and packed a small bag of stuff to take to hospital.

I’m not the greatest hospital patient. The clue is in the word patient. That’s not something I’ve ever been accused of being. I get easily distracted.

During the first few days, I didn’t sleep very well at all, even when they gave me medication to help me nod off. Inevitably, I started taking stock of my life and lay there worrying about everything — my leg, my long term health, my pitch at Angel and, as always, the lack of money. I also lay there and fretted about Bob.

The idea that we should go our separate ways had refused to go away. We’d been together for more than two and a half years now and he had been the most loyal friend imaginable. But all friendships go through phases, and some come to an end. I could see that I’d not been the most brilliant company in recent weeks. Should I ask Belle if she wanted to keep him? Maybe I should ask the nice bloke next door with whom he’d already struck up a bond, it seemed? I would, of course, be devastated to lose him. He was my best friend, my rock. I didn’t have anyone else in my life. Deep down I needed him to keep me on the straight and narrow, to maintain my sanity sometimes. But at the same time, I had to make the right choice. I really didn’t know what to do. But then it struck me. It wasn’t my decision.

As the old saying went, cats choose you, not the other way around. That’s what had happened with Bob and me years earlier. For whatever reason, he’d seen something in me that made him want to stick around. I’d always believed in karma, the notion that you get back in life what you put out into the world. Maybe I’d been gifted his company in reward for something good I’d done earlier in life? Not that I could remember doing that much good. Now I had to wait to see if he’d choose me again. If he wanted to remain with me, then it would be his decision. And his alone.

I’d find out his answer soon enough, I felt sure.