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Can't get her out of my head. Chapter 1 "Hello?" It wasn't her standard greeting, but reception at work had patched the call through and said it was a Doctor on the phone. This was not at all an anticipated phone call and she was curious and uncertain. It was mid afternoon, and she'd ducked home from the office early. Her plan was to work from home for a few hours, and later pick up the girls. "Hello, I was after Suzanne Ashwood." It was a male voice. "Yes. Speaking." She remained formal. "Oh. Hi...... err....... Suzanne, my name is Dr Thomas Chase, I'm an Intensive Care Specialist at Western Central Hospital. I have something I need to discuss with you." These are the phone calls that you pray you never get. Suzanne's pulse quickened and her mind raced. It was the Intensive care part of the introduction that resonated through her. She knew nothing about the medical field, but she, like most of us would, equated Intensive care with seriousness. Suzanne was thinking fast now. 'Oh God; the children? But no, they are just down the road at school, they weren't going anywhere today - and Western Central, well that's, that's miles away, on the other side of town I think. I don't even really know where that is.' 'But of course it could be Stephen.' Her rapid internal monologue pounded at her. 'I guess it must be. He's at work in the city. What has happened? How has he ended up in hospital? Intensive care? Oh no! Please don't let it be so.' A wave of nausea swept across her and she felt a tingling in her fingers and her lips. "Who? What?..." she stammered in a way that made the caller feel the need to re-identify himself, but she was really asking who was in intensive care and what was wrong with them. "I'm Tom Chase - an Intensive Care Doctor at Western Hospital. I'm afraid I have bad news!" Then, a pause, not intentionally for dramatic effect, it just seemed so. It was merely that Tom was still crafting the words in his head. Suzanne - standing unsupported, felt a sudden need to brace herself on something, anything, but nothing was near. This is news she fears, or more precisely now, knows, really is about to change her life. "It's about Summer. Summer Bryce." The relief in Suzanne was so palpable that even the Doctor on the phone could sense the sudden release in tension. Oh thank God. It's not Stephen. It's nothing really. Well virtually nothing. Suzanne could breathe again and her self control was quickly regained. It's laughable even, to think how afraid she'd been moments earlier, to how inconsequential this whole situation was. "Who?" But Suzanne had heard perfectly well the first time. She just wanted to be clear to the Doctor that she didn't have any association with the person he was referring to. "Summer Bryce," he repeated. "Your relative." He added the second part with less certainty than he'd had before he'd initiated this conversation. "I'm sorry, I have no idea who you are talking about." Suzanne had now completely regained her composure and felt the need to make that apparent by sounding as business-like as she could. She was back to her working mode voice now. Assured but not too officious. Dr Tom Chase, on the other hand, felt as though the wind has just drained from his sails, as another lead appeared to be a dead end. He felt now, after this sudden crushing setback he was never going to get what he needed. Calling her a Jane Doe and getting the court order was painful, but not prohibitive. But this did not sit well with him. It never did. No-one should die alone and unknown. A relative would not only be easier, but far more personal really. It would certainly make him feel better about what he was about to do. What he had to do. He knew this was part of the job. Not a good part but definitely an essential part. It seemed though, in his efforts to confirm her identity, and find a relative to assist with that, and all that was to come, he was back to square one. However he was sure this woman on the phone was the correct person. The pieces had to fit. So he persisted. "Oh. Aren't you.... weren't you Suzanne Bryce. Your maiden name? I rang your work and they said you were Ashwood now." "Yes that's right but....." The Doctor interrupted. "Well we have you down as Summer's next of kin....." "What?!?!" It was a half yell, and in that instant she realised she had given herself away, and that the Doctor had caught her in her lie. "I mean. That can't be. I'm not her next of kin." Tom pondered for a moment. First this woman denied knowing Summer, and now seemed outraged at the implication she is kin. There is more going on than he understood. He needed to find out what. Some sort of sisterly spat perhaps? He had decided that they were most likely sisters. It seemed the most plausible conclusion. Sharing a surname till one of them married. Although maybe they both were married now. Summer's limited identification from her purse had two different surnames. Were it even her purse to begin with he had to note. Assuming that it was then, this was the only surname, of the choice of two, that had lead to a possible relative though. So he had to speculate. Maybe there had been a major falling out and maybe Summer's relative details were never updated. Surely this situation would transcend such matters though. What would make her deny the existence of her sister? Even with the news she is unwell. Although maybe Tom hadn't been clear in explaining how unwell she was. He would need to. No fight could be so significant for this not to override it. Even if it was a man involved, as the instigator of the issues that had come between them. Which Tom, having seen the nature of such things frequently, felt likely. Still, this was imperative. He was still not 100% sure that his patient was indeed Summer Bryce, and it was only by some degrees of detective work that he was able to track down anyone that might possibly know her. The only thing he could do, he thought, at this juncture, a seeming impasse, was to change tack, in a hope to engender sympathy. Even if not for Summer, then maybe for his plight. He spoke again with his best soft persuasive voice. "Mrs Ashwood. I need your help. I have a patient here. I believe her to be Summer Bryce. I can't find anyone who knows her - or who can identify her. Her health insurance company have you down as her next of kin. I rang all the contact numbers with no answer - except your work, who have patched me through to you......" "Those details are years old. Those contact details, my home and mobile, would be well out of date. Disconnected now. I've long since moved. And she's not my next of kin anymore." What she should have said, Tom thought, was what she said the first time, I'm not her next of kin. But that's not what she did say. It may have been semantics but Tom was certain now he had leverage. "Well then who is?" "She has a husband. His name is Darren. Darren........" Oh shit, she thought, what was his name? The one piece of information that would end this phone call and rid Suzanne of this recurrent nightmare, finally, and by the sound of things completely, and she can't remember it. Maybe I never knew it, she found herself pondering. I suppose I would have if I'd have looked at that wedding invite, rather than immediately binned it. She found herself on a tangent then, recalling how ridiculously audacious it was of Summer to even send it. Cheap tacky invite to a cheap tacky wedding of an extremely cheap and tacky woman. "I can't remember exactly..... but the police will know him.... that's for sure," she added with a thick undertone of what Tom felt was sarcasm. "Okay," Tom replied. "We'll look into that." And he would. It wasn't a bad lead. The cancelled credit card had her name as Summer Kaposnikov. So that would make her husband Darren Kaposnikov possibly. He even considered offering up that information as a suggestion, to see if it would trigger her memory. Yet he predicted that would just further absolve this woman from responsibility and he would lose her. "But at the moment you are they only contact we have and we may not have a lot of time." Which was true, and unsubtle. Tom hadn't meant to be so blunt. He was better at this than what he had just displayed, he told himself. It's because I'm so annoyed at all this hoop jumping, he decided. I'm getting nowhere. Suzanne, meanwhile, was mulling over what she had just done. It had occurred to her too late that maybe Darren was the very reason this girl was in intensive care, and she had just aided in bringing him back to her. Oh well, she attempted to exonerate herself; Summer knew what she was getting herself into. Maybe this is just desserts, or karma. But she realised instantly that she had failed in her self-extrication, and was compelled by the slightest hint of guilt. "What's wrong with her? Was it him?" Suzanne asked. Making sure not to sound like she cared, for truly she didn't. She would not let herself. "Pardon?" Tom was confused. "Did he do this? Darren? Has he beaten her half to death? Is that why she's in hospital? It's not the first time you know." She sounded so matter of fact as she said it. "No. That's not it...." Tom stumbled out, as you do, when such a detail is exposed. It made him suddenly feel like pursuing the husband as an alternative contact was indeed a bad idea, and this woman, Suzanne, was instantly all the more valuable. "Well what then?" Again she spoke in unfeeling monotone. "I can't really discuss it over the phone. Especially when you're not........" Tom regretted it the moment he said it. "Fine then." Suzanne seized the implication with vice like grasp. "Well I guess you won't need anything more from me, so thank you for your call." Suzanne pulled the phone away from her ear and motioned her other hand towards the red button. As she did so she could hear the Doctor's voice calling out. "Suzanne please! Wait!" Her hand stopped. He did not have her number - work would not have given that out. I can just tell them to stop forwarding his calls. I can just forget about all this. Yet her hand did not move forward. She told herself it was the sound of the pleading Doctor that stopped her hanging up, but she knew in part that it was a morbid curiosity that kept her on the line. She was certain it was nothing more. At least she thought she was certain. "What?" she spoke quietly and coldly, but she knew she was slipping further and further down a path she truly did not want to venture. "Summer. She is gravely ill Mrs Ashwood. If you have any feelings at all for your sister......" "She's not my sister!" Suzanne snapped. Much more animated than moments before - and very defensive, but still ensnared. "Ohh. I just assumed that you were both Bryce and you used to be next of kin......" "No. We were ...err.... only related by marriage. And that marriage... well they are not together now at any rate." "Ex sister in law then?" Tom proffered, as if trying to make sense of it all in his own head. After a pause Suzanne affirmed. "Well, yeah, something like that...." "Okay then," Tom regathered. "But like I was saying, if she means anything at all to you...." "She doesn't." Still so matter of fact. Even more so. Suzanne felt even more control of her resolve. She would not allow herself to feel. No pity. No remorse. I truly owe her nothing she thought. Steeling herself into that mindset aggressively. "Oh." Tom stalled. Where to now? This woman's a bitch. Tom was now establishing this person possessed that trait with crystal certainty. Is there no compassion? One last roll of the die is all I have. "Summer is dying, Mrs Ashwood. It's as simple as that. We need someone who knows her, and preferably cares about her, to help us work out what to do now. To tell us what she would want us to do." The long silence that followed, was sufficient in length for Tom to think that she had in fact hung up. He stood there stunned. Embarrassed, perplexed. Phone still at his ear, he was defeated. He hadn't heard a click, but he felt pretty certain he had failed in his effort to engender some sympathy. Then a voice came alive through the phone. Softer, gentler than any he had heard all conversation, with a sigh of resignation. "What do you need me to do?" "I need you to come." "Okay," she conceded. It was a voice of acquiescence. To Tom's surprise, as much as to Suzanne's, Tom's plea had worked. Suzanne reminded herself that she could not give a fat rat's about whether Summer lived or died or had ever walked the Earth at all. In fact she knew with all her heart how much she wished Summer never existed. Now, it would just be good riddance to bad rubbish. Still she felt she should perhaps oblige, citing civic duty and all that. Be a good citizen, help the nice Doctor, and various other associated excuses for reason. All he's asking is for me to identify her and agree to let her go. Turn the machines off or something. That's what he's implying. I can do that. Part of me will be glad to do that. End her miserable life and end my own misery about it to. I guess I can do it. And I suppose maybe, just maybe, although lets just be clear it's a very small maybe, completely pathetic wastrel that she is, not even Summer deserves to die alone and unknown. "I don't even know where your hospital is, I'm on the other side of the city. And I have to sort something out for the kids. I could be a long while. How long have I got?" Would she be already dead by the time I get there, Suzanne wondered. "Takes as long as you need Mrs Ashwood - the machines can keep her going indefinitely at the moment. Where are you coming from? I can help with directions." "From Toorong." Now it made sense; or didn't. Tom thought. Nothing did. But it gave him a hypothesis. A Toorong housewife. Next of kin to a Westie Hooker. How could two lives, two worlds be any more different. No wonder this woman is denying any connection. It would have to be tenuous. Toorong was far and away the city's most affluent suburb. Two million was a minimum buy in. And that would get you a shack. Like most of his medical peers, Tom had grown up in the hilly, leafy eastern suburbs, in the suburbs of the upper middle class, but Toorong was another world. As for the west, that part of town beyond the river bridge; all Tom knew was that you had to drive through it to get to the surf beaches, and that you locked your door. Until he worked here. Immersed in the crime and the poverty and the drugs, Western Central was a great place to practice your craft. Sure, to see what people were capable of doing to each other was gut wrenching stuff, but here, even more than the other major city hospitals - he could really believe he was doing some good. Yet even though he worked there, he doubted he would choose to live there. Growing up on the other side of town always meant that was the preferred home to him. Maybe Summer had been similar. Not always a local. Yet Suzanne seemed to exemplify the class divide. There was more to the story of how these two women were so different. Tom knew it. He wasn't sure whether it would be relevant in achieving his aims. He'd wait and see. After giving Suzanne directions, and hanging up. He found he had wandered unintentionally to Summer's bedside. Did this explain the incongruity he felt lingered around this Jane Doe's case? Or make it even harder to comprehend? He would pause for a moment and reflect on what he knew. What possible circumstance could have led to two people, so different, having this connection, initially denied by the conscious affluent one, but now apparent? Despite Suzanne's protestations, Tom hadn't given up on the idea that they were sisters, with this one, the comatose one, heading down a dark path and being disowned by those who shared her DNA. It would certainly explain some things, but not all. He had no idea what she really might have looked like, before all this. He did not see her till she was wheeled in post op. With her shaved head, giant craniotomy wound, ICP monitor coming straight out of her skull. Not to mention the tubes coming out of the mouth of her swollen oedematous face. From the neck down, from what he could tell, she had a healthy, well maintained body. Polite physician speak he supposed for meaning she was quite tidy. She had a rockin' body truth be told, if he were to describe her to his drinking buddies. But he was a professional, so he certainly wouldn't be saying that. If he was right and she was a good girl gone bad then there is usually only one reason for that. But where were the track marks? Her veins were pristine. Sure, heroin is not the only poison, but her teeth were perfect. No fillings let alone cavities. Her nasal septum, clean. No scratching, no wasting of muscles. No excess piercings, although he knew he was making his own snobby middle class generalisations, but it all contributed to the tapestry he felt. Regardless there were no tell-tale signs of coke, crack, ice or any other possible street stuff for that matter. He wasn't always up with the latest, the ED guys and the paramedics were always far more abreast of that than he was. In fact Tom felt he was still mentally recovering from the patient he'd had in the Unit last week, a man who'd ripped his own testicles fair off after taking something called 'Meow- meow.' Back to Summer, after that offensive interlude, and again he thought he was profiling, but he found it also odd she only had one tiny discrete tattoo. Furthermore her Hep & HIV serology was clear - except for evidence of previous Hepatitis B vaccination, and she was old enough to have been born before that was mandatory, so she had actively sought it. So if that wasn't it - her apparent fall from grace, or diversification from her sister's lifestyle, wasn't a drug addiction - then what's her story? She certainly was well against type, so to speak. She did not fit the stereotype at all of a drug addled whore. From what Suzanne had said though, it sounded like she had the abusive partner with a criminal past, and that certainly fit the mould. But there was as much if not more incongruity than there was conforming to preconception. The things we do for love, Tom thought. Maybe it was as simple as falling in love with the wrong guy. Then he had to consider the apparent expense outlaid on her body maintenance. For sure her breasts were cosmetically enhanced, not uncommon for someone in her line of work, but it wasn't a cheap job. This was done by a very experienced (and therefore expensive) plastic surgeon. It was hard to tell too, with her face quite swollen, but he felt that she'd had a fair bit of work done there as well. Again, the scars so subtle to be almost unnoticeable. She, or someone, had invested a lot in her appearance. It did not seem to Tom like turning tricks could have funded all this. He suspected that somehow, the wealthy Toorong woman he had been talking to on the phone, had been a more likely financial source. It seemed to have not been her intent, but Tom could not help wonder if Suzanne was a reluctant benefactor. I wonder..., he thought as he stared at her, eyes taped shut, trying to piece together all the clues. No, it was more than a wonder. More even than a likelihood. It crept up on him with sledgehammer subtlety. He was almost certain now. Her condition, her primary pathology, the disease that resulted in her lying in his ICU bed, surely had played a role in her apparent fall from grace and choice of lifestyle. What an enticing hypothesis. One that was also more than a little terrifying. But he had heaps to do though, for his ward of patients, before he could explore this further. Yet it was now high on his list of personal priorities to do some reading up on his theory, as soon as he had time. It would have to wait till he'd finished all his other work. 'I'd best get to work then.' Became his summation. So without further delay he turned on his heel and left. If he was correct, and he hoped that he was, this was a fascinating case, and a most spectacular reason for this girl's apparent degeneration into a pointless and listless life. Chapter 2 Thomas Chase was not in the intensive Care Unit when Suzanne Ashwood arrived. He came when paged and found her in the little room called "Interview Room." Where she had been placed by the clerk's and nurses. It was an unsubstantial room with a table and chairs, calming pictures on the walls and a box of tissues strategically placed and frequently replaced. The door did indeed say "Interview Room" but the staff called it colloquially, "The distressed rellies room." Where countless families had gathered to hear devastating news about the fate, whether transpired or about to, of their loved ones. Tom felt it was perhaps the saddest room in the whole hospital, and similarly felt that the walls oozed out the misery that was ground into them daily, making it almost haunted. It always felt cold in there. Suzanne, seated in that room, was close in appearance to how Tom imagined she'd be. Well groomed, immaculately dressed. Tom concluded she was stylish and attractive. If they truly were sisters, his patient and her, then she was the elder. He noted her colouring was definitely darker than his patient's, still not enough to destroy his theory however, but did add to the doubt. She rose from her chair as she saw him approach. He introduced himself, and they shook hands. She sported a large diamond engagement ring and a similarly adorned wedding ring on her left 4th finger, certainly quite showy. They smiled briefly at each other, in a way you don't with a total stranger, because after one emotionally charged phone call, they weren't quite strangers anymore. He knew how hard he had fought to get her here, so any idea of a third degree would be most counterproductive. He needed to proceed gently and carefully. He could not interrogate; merely converse. He felt he should be the instigator of conversation though. Lay it all out for her. By offering up what we had, maybe she will be compelled to give him something in return. He directed she return to her seat and she complied. "Thank you for coming. I realise what an imposition it is for you." "That's Okay." It's what she was expected to say, but it was clearly just polite lip service. Tom felt at some point she would let him know exactly how much of an imposition it really was. "I'll tell you what we know. Then I'll tell you how you can help us." He started warmly. "Okay." This seemed reasonable to her. She did not return his warmth though. "Five nights ago, the paramedics brought a woman into our Emergency Department, scantily dressed, typical attire for a hooker." Maybe that was detail I should have omitted he thought, but too late. He regathered and continued. "In what we call status epilepticus," he explained. "That's a condition when someone doesn't stop fitting." She looked on, listening with partly feigned interest. The medical terms meant nothing to her, nor did the cause of Summer's arrival at hospital seem to be of any relevance. It was at this moment that Tom realised what he was up against. Whatever history had passed between this woman and his patient, she really didn't care at all about Summer's predicament. But he needed her to care. He needed something more than total indifference to be sure her decision would be the right one. Even though he knew he could get exactly what he wanted right now, it did not seem right to get it like this. Suzanne had to do what she had to do not out of hatred, but out of love, and Tom had to get her there, and he just could not see how he could possibly achieve that. But the sugar coating had to go at the very least. "It's not uncommon around here. Many street drugs in excess or just cut with toxins can do that. Cause seizures I mean." He chose his words deliberately now with the bluntness, to ensure her attention. "So the guys downstairs suspected that she was some junkie whore who'd taken too much of one type of shit or other." Suzanne bristled a little at his blunt crassness and Tom realised that he had to find some middle ground between egg shells and bulldozers. "I mean they assumed she'd overdosed on something. There's new stuff out there all the time." This sounded more civil. "Anyway, she had no ID on her. The paras had just found her on the street. No signs of assault as far as we could tell. But she just wouldn't stop seizing in spite of our usual cocktail of Narcan, benzos and the like." He realised he'd lost her again at this point, too much jargonese. "What I mean to say is that nothing that usually worked as antidotes to overdose was working. So we had to sedate her heavily, paralyse her muscles, take over her breathing, the whole works, and even then her EEG was still firing like crazy..... she was still fitting, I mean." She appeared to be following again. Maybe even a little interested. Tom knew he was painting a bit of a vivid picture. It could be a story from any medical show or even soapie. "So she had an urgent CT of her brain, and I have to tell you we've never seen anything like it." He exclaimed the last, as if, 5 or so days later it still startled him. When a Doctor says that, Suzanne was discovering, you can't help but listen. "She had this massive tumour - it was huge - spread out over both hemispheres of her brain. Squashing everything, the sheer size of it, you have no idea." He was right, she did have no idea. But he seemed impressed. "Anyway, it looked like there was nothing we could do. If the tumour had started in the brain then it was most likely a Glioblastoma, what we call a GBM. They have a very low survival rate. And one that size, well, we half expected her to just fit herself to death. On the other hand - if it had spread from anywhere else, for example, her breasts, then that would be even worse. That's what we call a metastasis. A tumour that started growing elsewhere in the body then spread to the brain. That's a very bad situation and a very bad prognostic indicator too." Suzanne understood the last. They used similar language in business. It meant she was stuffed. Dying of cancer. The irony of Summer dying of breast cancer seemed so ridiculously poetic that Suzanne found herself quietly hoping for that scenario, and although it seemed cold she couldn't help but wonder if the telltale lump was not felt in time to save her behind her pumped up prostheses. It seemed decidedly awful that Suzanne felt joy at this concept. She was a tiny bit ashamed but not enough to contain her amusement. In case she had been unconsciously smirking she thought she should proffer something vaguely sympathetic. "Well that's not very good is it?" Tom didn't feel the need to reply to a statement like that, but breathed deeply and continued. "So we scanned her from top to toe, looking for a primary, another site of cancer. But there was none. So it seemed to have added weight to our theory the tumour started in, and had been confined to her brain. Although we did find though that she has had a hysterectomy. Quite surprising for someone so young. The usual reason would be cancer of the uterus or ovaries. And ovarian cancer has quite the proclivity for heading to the brain." Suzanne appeared a little lost again. Or even perplexed. "And this is where I need to ask you a question. As much to help us identify her as to work out the potential source of the tumour. Or at least definitely rule it out. Were you aware of Summer having an operation to remove her Uterus and Ovaries, and was it because of cancer?" The histopath of the resected brain neoplasia had proved it wasn't ovarian in origin, But Tom still felt it possible she had suffered from two different malignancies. He had seen it often enough. The treatment of one had induced the growth of another. Suzanne constructed her answer. "Yes. I was aware that Summer did not have a Uterus or ovaries, and no, it was not because of cancer." "Then why?" "It wasn't cancer!" She made it clear she would say no more. The matter of fact way Suzanne answered made Tom realise that this topic of discussion was over. There were other reasons why a young person might have a total hysterectomy, and Tom was no gynaecologist, but he couldn't really get his head around it. Sure, a massive post partum bleed might cost you your uterus, or an ectopic pregnancy one tube or ovary, but the whole box and dice, so to speak, in someone of child bearing age. He couldn't understand it. It unnerved him. But Tom wondered if there had been some mental competence issues. Maybe Summer was intellectually disabled. She certainly could have become so with a tumour that size. Had Suzanne perhaps had her sister neutered? And possibly without her consent. Was that why she was being so coy? Again, it may not have had bearing on anything he was trying to sort out, but it did make him even more wary of Suzanne's possible malevolence. Advantageously though it made him even more certain that his patient was indeed Summer Bryce. The confirmation of the total hysterectomy. Suzanne had correlated it, without even seeing her. Which brought him nicely to his next point. "So here we were with an unidentified woman with a massive tumour, destabilising and dying right in front of us. No one had reported her gone. And police ran her prints. No match. Very unusual for a Hooker around these parts." He gauged Suzanne for a reaction to this. There was none. "We did what we felt we had to," he continued. "So she went to theatre, and to put it bluntly, the neurosurgeons opened her up like a tin can and scooped out as much as they could." "Like Ice cream?" Suzanne suggested, only half joking. "Yeah, I suppose," Tom replied, not laughing. "Did a good job too. As enmeshed and ingrained as it was to her brain they got most of it out. But at quite a price it appears." "What price?" "The operation was nearly 4 days ago now. Two days ago a stripper from a local club finally reported a Summer Bryce missing. Went out for a walk between performances - never came back. Left her purse behind. We couldn't convince the stripper to come and ID her, but we did get Summer's purse. That's how we found you - through her health insurance. Not sure how many strippers have health insurance - but we're glad this one did." Suzanne was not shocked by the suggestion this woman was a hooker or a stripper, she clearly knew. "Anyway," Tom continued. "Like I said, it's now 4 days since her op and things aren't good. Her brain is so swollen we can't fully put the top back on. The skull I mean. The pressures in the brain are through the roof. There are no signs of her waking or moving." "So, does that mean..... " Suzanne didn't know what to say, she had gleaned enough though. "Are we talking organ donor here?" "This is where things get tricky. She has failed two tests for brain death, so technically she's not." "I don't understand." "Not brain dead. There is activity there. So, excuse the bluntness. We can't just chop her up and turn her off." Tom had been deliberately shocking, to gauge her, but she did not flinch. She really didn't seem to care at all. "Activity?" Was the only point of clarification she sought. "It's hard to be sure - maybe there is thought, or dreams. But she's not making any effort to breathe on her own, and her heart is needing lots of support. So the parts of the brain that matter, that keep us alive, don't appear to be working in her." "Can she survive?" It's not a question asked in hope, in fact maybe the intention was the opposite. "It's very unlikely. Not unless there is a rapid improvement in her condition, and that needs to be soon. And even if she did survive, unless her pressures drop and she starts breathing on her own it's even more unlikely that she'll ever be cognisant enough to speak or recognise anyone or even do anything that would make her human." "A vegetable?" Suzanne asked a little tentatively. "If you like." Tom was not fond of the term, but it sufficed for his purpose. "What do you want from me?" She seemed to have lost most of her aggression. Was Tom's tale of woe having the impact he hoped? "Two things. I need you to identify her beyond doubt. And then I need your consent to turn the life support off and let her go. Like I said, she's not officially dead, so we can't just do it. But the prognosis appears so grim I think it's for the best. We need a relative or next of kin to help us with that decision. Can you help me? Can you help her?" And that was it. His best and his only shot. He believed rightly or wrongly, that Suzanne would be a fundamentally good person, and even though it appeared she would gleefully sign up now and be rid of something that at best seems to be some sort of thorn in her side, once she saw her, it won't quite be so easy, and Summer will die at the hand of her family -making the right decision for the right reason. "I'll try." Suzanne was nervous now. She was faced with the reality of it perhaps. Her resolve was fading. Just as Thomas was hoping it would. Tom described in detail what Suzanne was about to see before her lead her to the bed, but no description could prepare Suzanne for the reality. The machines, the wires, the tubes, the noise, and in the middle of it all, a body, scalped, it's face bruised and swollen, almost inhuman. From that moment of first impact, Suzanne reeled back in response to the initial visual assault. "I can't; I can't possibly identify her," was her horrified exclamation. "She looks, she looks...." Grotesque was the word Suzanne was thinking, but she now had trouble articulating anything. Tom was anxious. It was her, he knew it, Suzanne knew it too, Tom believed. He just needed her to say it. "It's okay Suzanne. Just take your time. We can go out for a bit and come back if you like. But after what we talked about, the previous surgery and everything, with the hysterectomy. It seems very likely this is Summer. I just need you to tell me it's her." She remained in stunned silence. "What about the tattoo?" It suddenly occurred to Tom that this might be something Suzanne knew about. "I didn't know she had any tattoos." "Ohh." So much for that. Another dead end. "Where is it? What is it?" Suzanne seemed once again asking more out of curiosity than anything else. "It's only small, but professionally done, under her left breast, directly over her apex beat." "Her what?" "Apex beat. It's the very tip of your heart. You can feel it beating through your skin on your left chest." "What is it? The tattoo?" "Two little love hearts, each with a letter in them." "What letters?" God if it's D for Darren and S for Summer I swear I'll puke right here, she thought to herself, and not because of the sickening sight of the brainless freak I'm staring at, but how pathetic you truly were in life. "Here, I'll show you." Tom pulled up the sheet, careful not to expose Summer's breast, merely the tattoo beneath it. Suzanne stepped slightly, tentatively forward to peer at the mark. It was as Tom had described. Two hearts. Each with a letter. A and E. Only Tom was close enough to hear the sound of a breath caught in her throat, a silent gasp of unfathomable despair. And as one hand shot up to cover her mouth, too late to muffle the sound, the other hand came forward, as if it was outside her control, and touched the letters, and the beating heart beneath it. Tom could see it in Suzanne's face. A look of recognition for certain, but more. In her eyes, just for a moment, sheer blind terror. She reeled back a little and spoke, barely audible, forgetting Tom was right there, holding up the sheet. "Oh Sam. This can't be. This can't....." her voice quivering with emotion, and then ceasing, with Suzanne suddenly sensing Tom beside her. She pulled her hand away, looked Tom straight in the eye, and without a trace of the emotion from mere seconds before, stated, "It's her. Where do I sign?" Tom was left with two questions. He wondered what the tattoo could possibly mean. The little A and the E. And why it had shocked Suzanne so. He had every intent to ask, he just had to choose the right moment. Still furthermore, and although it was a little unclear, it appeared that Suzanne had called Summer 'Sam'. Had she once been Samantha Bryce? It might explain her apparent anonymity in terms of records. Was 'Summer' perhaps her stage name? But on all her admittedly limited identification documentation she was Summer. Even with her alternate surnames. Perhaps she had changed it officially. It was probably immaterial at this current juncture. It was the "E&A" tattoo mystery and Suzanne's reaction to it that confounded him and concerned him much more. Nonetheless he felt a wave of contentment now. It may have been fleeting, but he had seen Suzanne care. Whatever they were to each other now, they had once been more. Sisters, sisters in law, or merely close friends. It didn't matter. Suzanne had been reminded of that, and the decision she was about to make was most likely coming from that place. Chapter 3 Back in the Distressed rellies room, Tom had assembled the paperwork, and two witnesses. One nursing and one clerical staff. "It's all just part of the formality," he explained. "To make sure you weren't coerced or forced or anything." "I don't need any forcing," she said, but not coldly anymore. "If you don't mind me asking, the tattoo, what does it mean?" Tom was not sure if she would answer. "Not what I thought it meant, that's for sure," she said cryptically. "It seemed to remind you..." Tom began but was interrupted. A mobile phone blared loudly. It was Suzanne's. She looked at the screen. "I'm sorry, it's my husband. I have to take this." "Hello Stephen." She proceeded to have a conversation before them all. But the situation didn't really allow for another option. Although Tom was still further perplexed by her intermittently callous demeanour, exacerbated by his enforced eavesdropping. "I know honey I'm sorry. Did Katie explain everything?" "Yeah I know it's a pain........Just a distant relative. They couldn't find anyone else." "No. No one you know. I'll explain it all to you when I get home." "Just let Katie do all that. She can take care of everything. Just kiss the girls goodnight for me." "I don't know what time. As soon as I can. I promise." "I will. I love you." "Bye." "He frets." She explained to Tom, watching her. "But he has the nanny." "You have girls?" Tom asked innocently. "Two." "What are their names?" It was either that or 'How old are they?' Tom thought, to show interest, to make conversation. Then it's polite to move on. "Ashlyn and Eleanor," stated by Suzanne like a proud mother. Rightly so of course. And in the moment she said it she realised what she'd done. She had never planned to answer his question. The phone call was a perfectly timed serendipitous interruption. But she had suddenly been exposed. Potentially compromised. Perhaps Tom would miss it. She hoped so. But panic rose within her as she awaited the fallout. He had missed it. At least initially. He was busy processing whether it was some sort of child abuse to name your daughter Ashlyn Ashwood. Although he did know of an ED Doc called John Johnston. Whose personal explanation was that his parents thought him so awesome they name him twice. Which was nowhere near as funny as John seemed to think it was. Eleanor Ashwood on the other hand had a lovelier ring to it. Ashlyn and Eleanor indeed! Then it happened. A sudden cognitive link. Tom made the connection and it resonated through him. Ashlyn and Eleanor. A & E. Why would Suzanne's wayward, degenerate sister have the initials of her nieces tattooed over her heart? Tom's mind was racing. Something was amiss. She wouldn't! She wouldn't tattoo her niece's initials. But she would if they were her kids. So that's it! Little sister Samantha starts down the slippery slope with drugs or whatever and becomes Summer so big sister takes her kids off her and claims them as her own. Somewhere along the way Suzanne had taken steps to ensure her sister could never have any more either. Although Tom hadn't asked the age question by his estimation Summer must have been quite young when she had them. In Summer's purse there had been nothing to confirm her age or Date of birth, like a driver's licence, so he had gone with the estimate of the ED guys of early to mid 20s. The woman before him appeared to be in her early 30s. It seemed more likely to Tom that there had been mental competency issues. It was likely that Suzanne had no idea why her sister's mental abilities had degenerated, Tom conceded. She may have done it legally, taking the children for their safety, Tom meant, but her current behaviour suggested strongly to Tom that she hadn't. She had stolen the children, even if her intent had been honourable. But now she had the chance to dispose of the evidence and no one would ever know. Except for me, he realised. This woman is clearly not the right person to sign this form. She IS an evil bitch. My first impressions were right, Tom reflected. He had since given her the benefit of the doubt but that was a mistake. Tom's tune had, yet again it seemed, well and truly changed. It was time to tell her the rest of this story. Tom realised now that all the information he had discovered in the past few hours, from his research, needed to be shared. This is the part she needed to hear. Deserved to hear! He wasn't going to mince words either. They were staring at each other then, each trying to read the others thoughts; Suzanne wondered what was about to happen next. "You know," Tom began in a cool tone for the benefit of the two witnesses. "There's more to tell you." "Like what?" The hostility was there again. Suzanne felt vulnerable. She could tell by Tom's reaction he had made the connection between her girls and the tattoo. She was scared. "The tumour. That massive thing encasing her brain. Turns out it was benign." "What?" "Slow growing. Doesn't spread anywhere else. Just growing in the one spot. It would have been there for years. Slowly pressing on her brain. Subtly expanding and causing all sorts of changes." "What sort of changes?" Suzanne appeared anxious, and shifted nervously in her seat. "Oh, you know, behavioural changes. Personality changes." "Like what?" Suzanne had an inkling then of what was to come. "The sort that would take a good little girl and send her down a path of drugs and prostitution. But she wouldn't have known what was happening to her. She had a giant tumour growing in her brain, changing her, controlling her. It was up to those who knew her and loved her to realise something was happening, and stop her, and save her." Tom watched her fear and confusion continue to exude from her, bubbling up from within. "But they didn't. Did they? They just stood by and watched as Samantha became Summer." He watched her crumbling before his eyes, but this did nothing but encourage him. "If they'd realised what was happening to her, and found the tumour back then, well we could've cut it out for sure and well, we really could have saved her. But instead they stole her daughters, raised them as their own and ostracised her. Allowing her to degenerate in squalor. Not very nice really." Suzanne was pale, her face distraught. Tom was more than satisfied with the results he was now achieving. Squirm you bitch. "Is this true?" she virtually screamed at him, prompting the two startled witnesses to back towards the door, and flee in a timely fashion. They were intuitive enough to realise any thoughts of document signage was well and truly off the table. "Yes. All of it," he yelled back. "And instead of helping her, you stole her kids and abandoned her, disowned her completely. And now she's all but dead. How can you live with yourself?" Suzanne started shaking violently, and tears started to well, followed by the beginnings of a sob. Her words became indiscernible as she mumbled consecutively. "This can't be." Which is what she had said before. Still struggling to believe what she was hearing. Refusing to even. Followed by less certainty. "I didn't know." And still furthermore "Oh Sam, what have I done?" She collapsed to the ground then, right before him, and Tom was suddenly concerned. This was not put on, he could tell. She was genuinely remorseful and Tom feared he may have gone too far. He had been too blunt. Too brutal. He wanted her to care, and clearly she did. She had hated her sister bitterly, for what she had become. Perhaps she had believed she was doing the right thing. And maybe she was. Taking the children off someone who was no longer fit to be their mother. But now that she knows it's something Summer, or Samantha could not control, something that could have been prevented, she realised she can't hate her anymore. Tom felt compelled to reach out to her and he made motions to, but just before he was able to another nurse hurtled into the room. "Tom! Come quick. Summer's husband's arrived. He's just barged in. He's causing quite a ruckus." With a sigh, Tom left then in haste, whilst Suzanne remained on the floor, sobbing and shuddering, a mess of saliva and tears. He felt guilty for her sudden grief. But she would now do exactly what he needed her to do. Make a decision out of love. Chapter 4 Calming down this Darren guy was quite a task. He was clearly a bad dude. Well built, wild eyed, covered with tatts. Even security were anxious. After seeing his wife, in her current state, he wanted to kill, in his eloquent words "Every Goddam Motherfucker in the place." "What the hell have you done to my bitch?" Was the apparent root of his concerns. Apparently the stripper who had reported Summer missing had alerted Darren that it may be her, unidentified in the hospital. He had made his way here, in his own due course. When they explained, as simply as they could, about the tumour and the prognosis he still wanted someone to blame, and someone to hurt. Soon enough though, that anger was placated when he realised all he had to was sign a piece of paper and that would be the end of the "Ugly mutant bitch". He was well pleased. He clearly didn't care that much about her. He eulogised her thus: "She was never much of a wife anyway. Never would have anything stronger than pot. Thought she was too good for hooking. They never earn anywhere near as much just stripping. The only thing she had was her body and her looks, dumb as a box o' hammers she was. And now those looks are gone - trust me she'd be a lot better off dead." Okay, Thomas sighed silently after allowing the diatribe to run its course. Let's just get this over with. He really just wanted Summer, or Samantha, whoever she may be, to finally rest in peace. The people in her life were certainly not any good to her. Two different types of scum of the Earth, but scum of the earth all the same. "Sign here." Tom placed the paper in front of the snorting Neanderthal. "NO!!" a voice shrilled across the ICU. Suzanne was back on her feet. Tom looked across at her. He was tired. "But this is what you want..." He sighed. "It is not what I want!" she said pleadingly. "Hey, I know you." Darren spoke up. "You're that bitch who was always interfering. Always trying to take her away from me. Haven't seen you since the day I made her beat the crap out of you and threaten to hurt your kids. Scared now too huh?" Suzanne did look scared. The facade of the woman Tom had met earlier that day had caved in. She was flustered and frightened. Tom was confused. Perhaps he was wrong. There was perhaps only one evil person in the room, and he had totally misjudged the other. He walked towards Suzanne. "I don't understand," he began softly. "Please Tom," she whispered. "Please don't kill her." "What do you want me to do?" He moved in close so that only they could hear each other. "Save her...." "But I told you, there's not much left too save." "It can't end like this Tom. You think you know everything, but you don't. If there's even the slightest chance, I want to take it. Please." "But it's not up to you. Or me. It's up to him. Her husband. He's her real next of kin. I'm afraid he gets more say than even her sister." Suzanne braced. It was time. Suzanne trusted no-one. Not even Stephen. She had kept this secret that she had expected to keep forever. As much as it ate away at her. She could never share it. And although it had been a long time since Summer was any part of her life she could not escape it. It lingered in her dreams and made her life one of indolent pain. Could she really put her trust in this Doctor. This stranger. What choice did she have? She had to if she was to have any hope of saving Summer. If Tom's revelations bore truth, and she had no reason to doubt them, then Suzanne felt like she was everything he said she was. Suzanne knew she had abandoned and betrayed Summer. Not lightly. Not after trying so hard not to. Ultimately she had to. When her hate for her had far outgrown any love. And the love died. Or so she thought. But Suzanne was crying for her now. Her heart was mournfully longing for what she had once lost. It was clear though, if Summer were to have any chance then Suzanne would have to tell this man the truth. "I told you Tom. I'm not her sister. I wasn't lying about that." "Then what are you to her?" Suzanne thought hard about the way to say it, but could not find any better way. "I'm ...............I am her spouse. Her wife. We're married." Tom looked incredulous. What was she doing? What was this about? He knew Suzanne had a husband, Tom had heard them talking on the phone. Furthermore gay marriage was unfortunately still not legalised. So even if they were lesbian lovers once they were never actually married. It seemed Suzanne was embarking in a ludicrous, feeble attempt to hold things up, but why? Was there money involved? "Suzanne you're being ridiculous. And you still won't tell me the truth. If you aren't her sister then her real spouse, her husband, doesn't have to justify anything. And his wishes are pretty clear." "Come with me please," Suzanne ushered with angst. "I don't want them hearing. Anyone hearing. I promise I'll tell the truth." Tom complied, although a trifle reluctantly and they moved around the corner where no-one could see them, or overhear them. "So Suzanne, we're alone," he began. "Now tell me the truth then! Because up to now it's been nothing but lies, and I'm sick of them." He was as agitated as he sounded. Suzanne started hesitantly. "That person lying there. Summer. She's not what she seems. And I know you know right now my feelings about her are very conflicted. But once upon a time I loved her very very much. We are married. Or at least we used to be." "That's impossible," Tom began. "And ridiculous. And certainly not legal. Even if I were to believe the far fetched notion that you ever actually cared about her." "No. it's not. Impossible I mean. And I did care. I do. I may have thought I didn't but I didn't know then what I do now. So this is the truth you need to here. The reason she doesn't have a uterus or ovaries is because she never did. Because. I'm not sure how else to say this. She was born male. She used to be a man. She was my husband Tom. Her name used to be Samuel. And Ashlyn and Eleanor, they are our children..... She's their father." Chapter 5 Tom was silent for a long time. Suzanne looked at him intently, unblinking. Things had certainly gone a little sideways at the moment. Yet surely this was just another fallacy. It was too preposterous a notion to even consider. Was this grief? Had she completely lost her composure? Or even her mind? Or was this another trick that she had up her sleeve? It occurred to him now that maybe there is money involved. Had the prodigal daughter (used in the truest sense of the word Tom mused, compared to when it is used 9 times out of 10, completely inappropriately) some sort of inheritance that Suzanne didn't want to see this evil bastard get. Whilst he could sympathise somewhat he was resentful of more lies and more troubling, totally perplexed by what sort of person Suzanne really was. He grabbed Suzanne firmly but not violently around her bicep and directed her, hissing "Back to the room....."Meaning the Interview room from whence they'd come. When they arrived, he allowed her to enter first and closed the door behind himself. "What the Fuck is all this about?" he said, as harshly as he could. But Suzanne didn't react. She simply took a breath and started. "The things you said. The tumour. The behaviour and personality changes. Could it possibly make a person want to change their gender?" Tom looked at her. She was not calm, but tense, yet she seemed much more rational now. He was not a Neurosurgeon or Neurologist or even a Neuropsychologist. He was an intensive care Physician, he new heaps about physiology and pharmacology and keeping the very sick alive, but nothing about this. That is apart from what he'd read this very day - to help him with his outlandish theory. He told her so. "I'm no expert in this, by any means Suzanne, but I believe that my theory about what happened to ......" He vacillated over what to call her. "To Sam is certainly possible. Are you familiar with the pop culture term lobotomy?" He now had to extend it further. He had to, for a moment, suspend his disbelief and accept what Suzanne was telling him. "Yes." She had heard it. "Ok. Well it's a procedure from the dim dark past. They used to cut out parts of people's brains, the frontal lobes, or simply sever the connections with the rest of the brain, to change their personality and behaviour. Maybe you've heard someone described as a bit frontal?" She didn't reply. "Well, the effects of any tumour on the brain is variable. Classically the fast growing ones cause headaches, vomiting, paralysis, seizures and so forth. This makes them very easy to work out. But the slower growing ones can manifest much more subtly. Some gliomas, like what Sam had, spread so slowly, they don't tend to cause a mass effect, but slowly press on the brain, entwining itself in it, gradually interfering with function. They are harder to pick up." He continued "There are many reported cases of, for example, nuns becoming sex maniacs, or community leaders becoming serial killers. Some believe that these people had this in them already, latent, and the tumour just brought it to the surface, but most believe the tumour turned them into these things." Suzanne just stared, so Tom continued. "The cerebral cortex, the part of the brain that makes us who we are, that separates us from other species, was right under that massive tumour. When the tumour grows over the frontal lobes, the part of the brain that controls personality and behaviour, well of course it changes people." He drew breath to tell more but Suzanne interrupted. She had heard enough. She appeared broken but she seemed to have an agenda. "Tom?" He stopped talking and waited in silence. "I know you are not completely sure about me and my motives, but I'm going to tell you a story. Every word of it is true, and I hope that you'll believe me." "Go on," he consented. It was permission for Suzanne to begin what would be a long and mournful tale. "I'm a very fortunate woman, Tom. I have a loving husband and two beautiful daughters. Financially I'm very well off. Stephen is a good man. He is a great father to the girls. But he's not their real father. As far as he knows their real father died some years back. For Eleanor, this is her daddy. Ashlyn has the vaguest of memories about another man, but she doesn't understand what they mean." "I'm 35 years old, and so incidentally is your patient, in spite of what your records might say." Tom did not react. The age was a mere guess. "I'm originally from interstate. That's where I met and married my first husband, Samuel, like I told you. We had Ashlyn when we were 27, and Eleanor when I was 29. Things truly were wonderful. Sam had a great job, we had a beautiful house, money was not an issue. We loved each other very much. Or at least I thought so. Life was perfect....." She paused for a moment, before continuing. "He was 30 when...., when things started to change. I guess it's hard to convey what it feels like the day, the first time I suppose, the day you come home and find your husband in your clothes. It was not like I surprised him either. I'd been out at a meeting, the kids were asleep and he was just sitting there reading, dressed in my clothes, with a butchered attempt at make up." "Of course I was completely freaked out, what the hell are you doing and all that, and he bluntly replied he just wanted to see what it felt like, without appearing to be embarrassed or ashamed. So I wanted to know if he'd done this sort of thing before, was this some sort of desire he had. He denied all that - it was very matter of fact." "So I didn't know what to make of it. In hind sight he'd been cranky, moody, a little explosive for some while, but I thought maybe it was just work stress. Turns out it was the thin edge of the wedge. I told him I did not like or want him wearing my stuff, so he bought his own. Then he started, umm, bringing that attire into our love making. I hated that, but what was I to do. I loved my husband very much. He told me it relaxed him or some such thing. I hoped and prayed it was just a passing phase, but as time went on I realised more and more it wasn't. Soon there were wigs, and some sort of fake breasts from the internet. His wardrobe expanded, his make up much more expert. He'd taught himself. As women we are used to our men always checking other women out, it's in their nature I reckon, but he wasn't doing that any more, well not like other men. He was studying them, learning from them." "It wasn't long before every night, as soon as the girls were in bed, he'd be shedding his male persona and becoming her. Ironically Tom, he did call her Samantha." "By this time I was sick, miserable, depressed. I couldn't really cope with it, but I had to. My first responsibility was to the girls. I tried telling him how I felt, but he didn't seem to care. Especially when he was Samantha, he seemed to resent me, and was quite bitchy. We fought heaps. Any sort of intimacy or physical contact dried up completely." "We had lots of friends, and I had a tight network of girlfriends, and although we would share lots with each other, this was one secret I could not share with a single soul. I felt so alone, so isolated, and I was becoming resentful too." "Things continued to progress I suppose, he had laser hair removal on his chest, arms and legs, even his armpits. He started to wear lingerie under his work clothes, in fact he stopped wearing male underwear all together. I guess with him suddenly being all smooth and hair free from the laser I attributed his change in bodily appearance to that, so it took me a while to realise he was softening up, his muscles shrinking, and I guess, curves appearing. When I saw him adjusting what was starting to become noticeable natural cleavage in his bra, it was like glass had shattered, and the veil of denial had come off." "So I challenged him. I was pretty vehement about it. I couldn't really control myself. He calmly explained that for some time he'd been taking medication that blocks androgen receptors, I'm sure that means more to you then me Tom, apparently it's used in prostate cancer, and large doses of oestrogen, like in the pill, prescribed by some dodgy quack." "Meanwhile his work was suffering, he was having trouble concentrating, and wasn't being much of a father to his kids. I wondered if it was the hormones. Clearly it was more than that. The thing growing in his head, but I had no idea. At any rate it was the last straw. He was doing potentially irreversible damage to himself. It had to stop. So I marched him off to a psychologist and in turn a Psychiatrist. Something I would regret to my very core." "Once there, he spouted out about how ever since he was very little he had felt he was a woman trapped in a man's body and all that, and finally he couldn't take it anymore. This flew in the face of everything I felt I knew about him, and I couldn't believe it. But he was so adamant, and passed all the psychological tests they put him through, and before I knew it, they'd upped his hormones and told him he had to live full time as a woman before they would allow him to undertake, what they called, gender reassignment surgery." "Well, I don't need to tell you that our reactions couldn't have been more disparate. Sam was ecstatic, he wanted to go home and dispose of all his male clothes and trappings right there and then. I was mortified. I had to think for us all, and I could not live with the shame and the stigma. So virtually overnight, like common thieves, Sam quit, we sold up our opulent home, moved down here, and I bought a modest but comfortable home in Black Hill for me and the kids, and a unit in Panton, for Sam, as I knew that his kind..., well it was more acceptable there." Suzanne stopped mid narrative. She looked at Tom, who was attentive but inexpressive. "I know I'm sounding pretty transphobic right about now Tom." She remarked almost apologetically. "Honestly I'd never considered myself to be like that." She moved her gaze to the wall, unfocussed, almost wistful. "I mean I would have considered myself fully supportive of anyone struggling through that to finally get to be who they truly were. But then when it was the man I loved I became the ultimate hypocrite. I couldn't accept it. I couldn't believe it. I mean I did with time. I didn't have a choice. But it truly was a stepped grieving process. So there was anger. And maybe what I did next wasn't entirely fair, but Sam's reaction to it made me all the madder. I can't help but think, especially knowing what I now know, and what I saw on her body, that her next decision was definitely governed by that tumour." "So," she continued somewhat hesitantly, knowing how awful it portrayed her. "I told him that I would not allow him any contact with the girls if he was dressed as a woman. At which point he kissed them, it was a goodbye I guess, said he would never again pretend to be a man, and hoped I'd change my mind. He gave them up, just like that. I felt like he'd already given me up some time ago, without even the decency to tell me, but to so easily abandon his children. It was heartbreaking." "I realised then, just like that too, that I didn't love him anymore. Oh don't get me wrong; he was my husband and my best friend, and I cared about him deeply. But the love; the love that a woman feels for her man, I just didn't feel it any more. I tried so hard to stop this. Convince him that this was crazy. I got more opinions, from new Drs in this city. But they all agreed that Sam was undoubtedly transgendered, and, getting the chop would be the best thing ever for him. I was fighting a losing battle." "I still didn't give up on him though Tom. I hated seeing him like this but I had to support him." "So here I am in a new city, a virtual single mum, all on my own. No friends or supports. Thankfully money was still not an issue, but I had to plan for the future." "Which I did. With a full time nanny employed, back to work I went. I'm an accountant Tom, in case you were wondering. Big city, multinational firms, type of accountant, just like Sam was, but I gave it up to have the kids. It was hard to go back. To leave them in someone else's care but I didn't have a choice now. I was lucky I was still of value, and the money was pretty good." "Sam, meanwhile, was start