Holy shit, that’s high, I thought. ‘I’m calling an ambulance,’ I said. ‘You stay here. Deep long breaths. I’ll get you a couple of aspirin.’
The rest of the morning was a blur. Two short fat bald men looking like Tweedledum and Tweedledee arrived at the door. Joe and Kev. Ambulance men. I’d no idea how long they had taken to reach us. I was in a daze, trying to remain calm, not panic, be practical. Nothing felt real. Joe and Kev were lovely. They made Michael laugh, reassured him, did tests, took his blood pressure again, glanced at each other in a way that confirmed to me that it was not good. They told me to pack a bag in case they needed to keep Michael in, carried him out to the road as if he was as light as a feather and into the ambulance. This can’t be happening, I thought. Michael was over six foot, fit as a fiddle, ex-rugby player, played cricket, tennis, went hiking, rarely ill.
‘I’ll follow on in the car,’ I said, ‘so I can bring him home.’
‘Good idea,’ said Kev, ‘though I expect they’ll keep him in until his blood pressure comes down. Bring what you need too.’
I gathered a few things and drove to the hospital, though I have no recollection of roads or traffic. When I got there, I found Michael in a cubicle in A&E, connected up to a heart monitor. He looked relieved to see me. I glanced over at the machine behind him. BP 200/135.
‘How is it?’ he asked.
‘I can’t see from here,’ I lied.
A young female doctor with dark hair in bunches came in, sat opposite and explained what was happening. She looked about fifteen years old. None of it was going in until I heard. ‘… heart attack.’
Michael and I were both shocked. We knew something was wrong but neither had suspected a heart attack. He hadn’t fallen on the floor clutching his chest. ‘Are you sure?’ Michael asked.
The doctor nodded. ‘We can tell from the blood test we did when you first came in.’
Michael glanced anxiously at me. ‘So what now?’
‘First thing is to get your blood pressure down, run a few more tests, then we can decide on the best course of treatment.’ She carried on talking and I tried my best to listen, take it in, ‘… take you up to ward, angiogram to see what’s going on.’
Michael reached out, took my hand. ‘Looks like I won’t be home today. Don’t worry. I’m feeling OK now. Could you bring me a couple of things in case I have to stay in a few days? Books, my laptop.’
‘Sure. I brought clothes, your wash bag. But I’ll wait. See you up to the ward. See where you’re going to be.’
*
The rest of the week went by in a haze. My dear friend Philippa, on hearing of Michael’s condition, was straight over. ‘You won’t drive, we won’t let you,’ she said and, true to her word, she organized a rota of friends to ferry me back and forth to the hospital. At first, I felt embarrassed. I could drive, there was nothing wrong with me, but Philippa insisted. ‘People want to help, let us. It won’t be for long.’
As the days went on, I was overwhelmed by friends’ kindness to the point of tears. Every day, another one would arrive at the door, then drive and drop me at the hospital. It was a relief not to have to go round in circles looking for parking spaces or worry if I’d gone over the meter time. Most friends came in, said hi to Michael, then diplomatically disappeared to give us time alone. ‘We are blessed, lucky,’ I told him. ‘We have the best friends in the world.’
In between hospital visits, I went into a cleaning frenzy at home, took every item out of the fridge-freezer, dusted, polished, wiped. The house had never been so spotless. I couldn’t sit. Something compelled me to keep busy because I didn’t want to face or hear the voices that appeared in the wee small hours, when friends had gone, the house was quiet and sleep hadn’t come. The voices saying, what if he doesn’t make it? What if he never comes home? And the reality would sink in. This was serious. Potentially life-changing. Maybe he’d make it this time but there might be another time when …
Some friends I expected to hear from, I didn’t. Others I didn’t expect to hear from, I did, like Sara Meyers, my old friend from school days. She called out of the blue, said she’d been thinking of old times and me. As soon as I told her the news, she offered to come down and stay. We had been close once, a long time ago, but we weren’t really part of each other’s lives any more, apart from Christmas cards and the occasional catch-up call. I’d see her on TV from time to time, of course, but less so lately, now I came to think of it. I’d missed her when she first drifted away; she was an upbeat person with a big smile and a bounce in her step, but her career had taken her away and I’d got used to living without her after all these years. The same went for our other school friend, Mitch, who had disappeared even earlier and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth, though Jo and I had never lost that bond. ‘No need. He’ll be home soon,’ I told her. I was touched by her offer, I’d always enjoyed her company, but I had my team around me and my daughter Alice, who had arrived from Sheffield, where she lived now. My son Anthony had also offered to come over from Hong Kong, where he lived
