Weekday Blog - Tuesday September 4, 2012

I waited in the Oncology department as the medical team saw to her. I felt dreadful.

The head of the department came out to see me. “It’s not looking good, I’m afraid. She’s going to need surgery.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Not again.”

“I’ve arranged an ambulance.”

“You mean she’s going in now?”

“She has to.”

“Where will she be going?”

“Southampton, again.”

As before, Caroline flew over from France and Greg drove down from Manchester. Southampton General Hospital was beginning to look very familiar. We no longer needed to ask where we could get coffee or sandwiches, or where the toilets were.

Liz was in surgery for over five hours. When we went to see her in the recovery room, there was so much swelling to her face that Kristen walked right past her bed without recognising her. We were standing round her bed when she came round from the anaesthetic.

She smiled at us.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I said, trying my best to sound cheerful. “How are you feeling?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling at me through dry, cracked lips.

We made small talk until they wheeled her into her ward. At least the family did, since all Liz could manage was the occasional yes, or no. We stayed a couple of hours, by which time we were stressed out.

This was how it was to be from then on. I could talk to her until I was blue in the face, and I frequently did, because otherwise life would have been like one long silent movie. But if wanted a response, say to a question, I had to couch my question in such a way that she could respond with a yes or a no. Over time, I became adept at getting to know how she was feeling, or what she wanted.

She was up and dressed for much of the time, although she slept a lot during the day. And there were days when she didn’t feel well enough to get up, and stayed in bed all day.


Extract from my book WILL YOU TELL HER, OR SHALL I? A true story. My story. The story of how I lived with the ten-year terminal illness of my wife. Available on www.booksthepublishersmissed.com

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