After two days under observation she is back at home now and entrusted to his care. Lying on the sofa at the moment with her eyes closed and tummy exposed. This is the first time in his life he has attempted this manoeuvre, or anything like it. He pinches a fold of skin between thumb and forefinger. The nurse showed him how, yesterday. It's what children do playfully to hurt each other but as long as you don't pinch too hard, it doesn't hurt.
'Is this okay?' She nods, 'Mmm'. Briefly she opens her eyes then closes them against what is to come.
Syringe in right hand. It's a dainty little thing with a clear plastic body, a bright orange plunger and a short but clearly sharp needle. Inside the syringe is what looks like water but is something magic that will keep her alive, this is the hope. Boldly, fighting every instinct of proper behaviour that screams 'You mustn't do this!' he places the tip of the needle against the pinched fold of skin, pushes timidly, pushes a little harder, finally shoves with enough purpose for the skin to give up and allow entry. His wife squeaks. The needle slips gently up to its hilt in her vulnerable belly.
It's important to get this right. It must go in sideways, within the adipose tissue, which is a polite euphemism for fat. You are trying to avoid piercing anything vital. His victim is now silent, teeth gritted probably, he is too busy to look. 'Okay so far?' She grunts a fatalistic assent - just do it. The syringe has two little tabs for your fingers and you squeeze the plunger down with your thumb. It goes down smoothly. He pushes it right to the end so the final air bubble goes in too. This is what the nurse told him to do, push the air in at the end. He has no idea why. He has no idea why anything at the moment, he is just trying not to kill his wife.
Cotton wool pad over the needle, withdraw it gently, count to thirty, remove pad. Examine the wound. It's just a tiny little speck, hardly anything. He waits for dark blood to well out from it. Nothing happens.
She still has her eyes tightly shut. It's done, he tells her. There is a fine mist of sweat across her forehead. And his.
The first time is the worst. In the days and weeks to come this will become simply the nine o'clock routine, before he goes off to do the shopping. He has gained a new expertise, one he hasn't asked for and didn't want. They develop a system for rotating the attack zone around the navel, recording it in a blank space on the box of syringes - left top, left middle, left bottom, then the other side. Being methodical helps everyone not to think too much about what's happening. Soon her tummy looks as though someone has been planting seeds for a flowerbed, but no matter, it's keeping her alive.
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