From Cairo to Coffee
A True Story of Betrayal, and Misplaced Trust
by
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Someone was talking to me, in a loud, brisk, no-nonsense voice. But not unkindly. I had no idea who the voice belonged to, or what it was saying. Every part of my brain was trying to tell me something all at the same time, like a throng of people frantically imparting bits of the same story, their voices merging into just a cacophony of sound, with no discernible detail coming to the fore. So I heard nothing at all. The voice was insistent now to be heard, and it was joined by a pair of hands that were pulling me, but from where I couldn't tell. The pulling was now also insistent - determined: I should leave wherever I was, and go with the voice. The cacophony in my head was dying down, losing its intensity so that more essential facts were now able to get themselves heard. The first fact that was thrown at me was that the voice belonged to a nurse, and the second fact was that she was trying to get me into a wheelchair at the side of the bed she was pulling me from. That was fact three - I was in a hospital bed. And then all the relevant facts came in thick and fast, running through my semi-conscious mind: I was still alive. I was in hospital, and I was now being wheeled to a phone where, I was told, my sister was waiting to talk to me. The hand-set was pushed into my shaking hand, which in turn was pushed to my ear. I then heard my sister's voice, full of concern mixed with anger and helplessness:
The nurse wheeled me back to the bed, but didn't put me into it. I sat there trying to place the missing information into the empty spaces of my newly conscious mind. I was alive, how could it be? I thought I had taken enough of - and the right kind of sleeping pills to ensure this wouldn't - couldn't happen. I was devastated. I didn't want this. Why the hell do they do it? Save people who obviously don't want to be here. A vice-grip of pain seized me, vicious and angry. Whatever the pain was it was mine, and it should have died with me. Where were my human rights? Oh, that's right, I'm not a criminal, so I don't have any. They used to hang people who tried to commit suicide. Bring back hanging, I say. Please! The human spirit can withstand a lot, but once it's broken it crumbles into dust. Who can restore it then? There are people around me now I've woken, asking questions. Doctors? Nurses? The general public? It's hard to tell these days: there isn't a recognisable uniform to help you determine who is talking to you. And that's if you're in full control of your faculties, which I obviously wasn't. While they discussed what to do with me (simple, just put me in a yellow plastic bag and leave me out for collection), I try to take in my surroundings. They weren't pleasant, definitely not heaven (not that I'd be going there, even if it did exist). No, this was more on a par with hell. Questions kept coming at me from various directions. By the time I'd located the person whose voice had asked the last one, another question came from another direction - another voice. I gave up even trying to understand anything of what was happening around me. I just sat and said nothing. I thought that as they had decided to save me, they could now decide what to do with me. I soon found the best way to stop the questions coming was to nod, just nod, like I knew what they were saying, and agree to it, whatever it was.
I was officially homeless. So, as I was unable to care for myself it was decided I would stay in hospital. I was now an inmate at the funny farm. The further you burrow into yourself the further there is to crawl back out from again, and I needed professional help to do that. The wheelchair started to move towards a lift. The person pushing it was talking to me: I think they were probably telling me where I was going. I really didn't care. I just wanted to sleep and could hardly keep my eyes open by now. I was wheeled into a room and left there after what seemed like an hour of travelling along corridors and through doors to the constant squeak
Eventually a doctor came to assess me. That means he asked me a lot of questions that I didn't know the answers to, especially the ones that wanted to know if my parents were alive and, if not, when had they died, and how old they had been. I could only answer the first one (that they were both indeed dead). I think I lost a lot of brownie points for the others. The doctor was trying to come up with dates to help me, so I helped him and said yes to some of the numbers on offer. I got a smile, and some of my brownie points back.
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About the Book
I have written a true account of a relationship and its despicable ending: that almost cost me my life. That there was, indeed, a relationship is patent. The truth is all around me. A great number of points of interest, irregularities and proof are now in the light that were once in the dark. Having shown that, it is understandable to see, why the betrayal was so devastating. And why my trust was so misplaced. There are also in life acknowledged truths: things we will believe without evidence. It is within acceptable limits to presuppose that in a relationship that had spanned almost eight years, that assurances were given and promises were made. I am no author, no writer, no spinner of tales. The desire to record and write down the truth was a lifeline. I wrote my story because I'm trying to reclaim my life: the book is a benchmark of my progress to date. I nearly paid a terrible price. The relationship that dominated my life is over now, and its despicable ending. I have lost someone I thought I could trust unequivocally. I have lost my home, and my job. And my beautiful cat - Cleopatra, I couldn't take her to where I moved to, so I lost even her. I lost my mind for awhile: and I nearly lost my life. Now I have to move forward, and hope that the grief will loosen its hold, and a brighter future will give a better shape back to the world. In his last e-mail to my daughter he said, `Today's disagreements will resolve themselves and become yesterday's forgotten problems.' I do hope that he's right. Gillian Roberts September 2008
About the Author
Out of absolute pain, Gillian Roberts has chiselled the truth - her truth. From the experience of writing, she has forged a way forward for herself. In her own words, “I am no author, no writer, no spinner of tales.” But she grabs your attention by the authenticity of her voice. Some books are to be chewed, and some to be digested, but this one will be gulped whole. This could have been the exotic tale of the Arabian knight, the sculptor with winning ways, and hidden deceptions. But it is more than that: it charts in meticulous, faithful detail a relationship being cruelly destroyed. It is compelling reading, because Gillian was so compelled to write it: the truth must out! Michael Willmott Editor