I stare at the ceiling. Having a major seizure after all this time is a huge wake-up call. But just because it’s happened once doesn’t necessarily mean it will happen again. I just have to be more careful from now on. More vigilant when it comes to keeping my meds down.

Every couple of minutes the headlights from passing cars shine through a gap in the curtains and pattern the wall. I count the seconds between cars, notice small variations in the quality of light and the size and shape of the patterns. Anything to stop my mind dwelling on the terrible feeling of dread that sits in the pit of my stomach like a stone. The feeling that won’t be assuaged by rational thought.

—

The following weeks pass in a tedious blur of nausea and tiredness. I’ve been eating salty crackers to stop myself from throwing up and I’m making a real effort to stay calm, but I can’t help feeling resentful that what’s meant to be a happy and exciting time has been overshadowed by my re-immersion into the world of hospital appointments and medical tests. Something I thought was a thing of the past.

“You’d still have to go to hospital, even if you didn’t have epilepsy,” Ross says one evening when I try to explain how it makes me feel. We’ve been measuring the spare room for curtains. The spare room that was going to be my study, but which is now going to be turned into a nursery.

“You should hear Catherine on the medicalization of pregnancy and childbirth,” he says. “It’s her—”

He stops when he sees my face and realizes what he’s just said.

Tension crackles between us like static. “It’s her what?” My voice is cold, hard.

“It’s her pet peeve,” he says at last.

A flush of anger suffuses my face. “How come you’re so familiar with her pet peeves?”

He gives me an exasperated look, as if I’m the one who’s in the wrong, and maybe I am, but it’s too late now. I’m all wound up.

“Because I work with her, Lizzie. Colleagues talk to each other. Surely you can’t expect me to ignore her?”

“No, of course not. But I don’t expect you to bring her into our private conversations.”

The silence between us lengthens. Solidifies.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “I’ll try not to mention her again.”

“Thank you.”

He tries to hug me, but something I’ve forgotten until this very second, what with the seizure and all the hospital tests and the nausea, arrives in my head and sets me off again. I wriggle free from his arms.

“You thanked her, didn’t you? For those flowers.”

He looks bewildered. “How do you know that?”