Good morning, dear followers.
Back safely from Menorca, which didn't disappoint.
Wall-to-wall sunshine, warm sea, great pool and some fabulous walks and views.
Then I had to go and spoil it all by stepping on the bathroom scales this
morning! Oh, and before I forget, my partner was getting to an interesting bit
in Fifty Shades of Grey on the plane home and didn't speak to me throughout the
two-hour flight. People are saying this book is doing something for
relationships. It's not doing a thing for mine. I'm thinking of sending a
strongly worded letter to E.L.James.
And, meantime ...
The first seizure was a small one. So was the second.
So were the third, the fourth and the fifth.
“Liz,” I said. “I’m calling the doctor.”
Liz nodded. She looked weary. Her eyes were bloodshot
and full of pain.
I dialled the number for the surgery and pressed one to indicate a medical emergency. The receptionist at the surgery put me
straight through to our doctor.
Sue asked me how frequently the seizures were coming.
“Every three or four minutes,” I said.
“How long are they lasting?”
“A minute or so.”
“I’d better come round.”
Liz’s hair was plastered to her face. I moistened a
face cloth and gently wiped her brow. It might sound melodramatic, but there
was a smell of death about her. Not that I was aware of ever having actually
smelt death. I suppose it was how I imagined it would smell.
The doctor was there in ten minutes flat. Considering
it was a five mile drive through a residential area, there was no way she had been
observing the speed limit. She picked her way through my decorating clutter in
the hall and sat on the bed. She took Liz’s wrist to feel her pulse. Another
seizure came on while she was sitting there.
Sue watched in silence. She waited until the seizure
passed, then got to her feet. “We need to talk,” she mouthed. “We’ll be right
back, Liz.” She led me into the lounge. We stood by the picture windows. It was
a cold cloudy day and it had been raining. There was no sign of life in the
garden: no squirrels, no birds. Maybe they were hibernating. Who could blame
them in an English winter? “I think it’s time we got her into the
hospice.”
I stood there for a moment not knowing what to say. My
heart was thudding in my chest. “Are you saying this is it?”
“It’s hard to say, but it might be. She’s Catholic,
isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Then you might want to call her priest. Just in
case.”
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
Twitter: Maximillian19
FB: facebook.com/Booksthepublishersmissedcom
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