As I left the ward on the fifth night of Michael’s hospital stay, I said goodbye, kissed him. ‘You’ll be home soon,’ I said. When I got to the door, I turned back. He was sitting up, watching me, the expression on his face unguarded and infinitely sad. It hit my heart. It was as if he was saying, here we are, my love, not in control of our lives at the moment. We’re in the hands of others now, of others who tell me what I can eat and drink, what pillow I lie on, what time I am woken, when I must sleep and when you can come and go. In the hands of others.
*
When I arrived on the cardiac ward at the hospital the next day, Michael’s bed was empty. I looked around for someone to ask where he was. One of the young nurses, Yaz, noticed me and dashed forward. She had poppy red hair and tattoos on her arms. I liked her and her cheeky nature and knew that Michael did too. She had a bit of banter going with all the patients, and was one of those many people for whom you feel so grateful that they work in the NHS. She looked anxious.
‘Can I have a word?’ she said, and led me into a small room at the top of the ward where she closed the door behind us.
‘Where’s Michael?’ I asked.
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Conway. He was a lovely man.’
Was a lovely man, was? ‘But where is he?’ I presumed that he had been taken for his angiogram or some test or other.
‘The doctor will come and see you in a moment.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘A massive heart attack about half an hour ago,’ she said as she reached out a hand to steady me.
‘Heart attack? No. Another one? But I just spoke to him on the phone this morning. He sounded fine. Is he all right?’
She shook her head. ‘We tried to call you but you must have been on your way here and there was no answer from your mobile phone. I’m so sorry. He didn’t make it. We did everything we could. Is there someone you can call?’
This time I got what she was saying. Michael had died. I felt my knees give way and I sat heavily on a chair in the corner. ‘My friend Philippa. She’s in the car park. I’ll call her now.’ With shaky hands, I fished my mobile phone out from the bottom of my handbag, where I noticed six missed calls from the hospital and the volume turned down too low to hear it.
This can’t be happening, I thought. Can’t be right. Can’t cope with this. I felt as if some malevolent force had blown a hole in my abdomen. The expression, hit by a train, came to mind. I couldn’t think, breathe or move. I was frozen.
Yaz brought me water in a plastic cup from the unit in the corner, then went to talk to Michael’s consultant who had appeared outside the glass partition separating the small office from the ward. He glanced at me then came in.
Philippa arrived I don’t know how many minutes later. She was out of breath from rushing. She sat and held my hand as various staff came in and gave us information or instructions. I wasn’t sure what. When the doctor came back to tell me something, I remember thinking, I don’t want to hear what you’re saying. I don’t want to hear this. I kept glancing at the bed on the ward, now empty, willing Michael to appear, be there again, sitting up, making cracks about the food and being given everything he didn’t get at home, like apple crumble and custard.
When Philippa drove us home some time later, I recalled the last time I’d seen Michael. Last night. Of course, I hadn’t known then that I’d never see him alive again. That look he’d given me, so tender, so sad. Had he known it was the final time he’d see me? End of. Date of expiration Thursday 25th October, a day in the calendar unmarked for the sixty-eight years he’d lived. We’d passed over it so many times, never suspecting for a moment that it would become a date to remember.
Chapter Seven
Jo
Present day, October
‘So what’s the problem?’ I asked Mr Richard as I sat in his consulting room at our local hospital. I’d had to wait twelve weeks for the appointment with him, despite my GP chasing it up. It was a warm day for October and I felt clammy and slightly breathless, something I’d been feeling more and more frequently of late.
Is this going to be it? I wondered. Bad news? My friend Ally’s husband had died of a heart attack, just a few days ago. Big shock. He’d appeared so fit, played sport, didn’t smoke, yada, yada. If someone like him can pop his rugby boots, what hope is there for a lazy lard-arse like me? Naturally, Ally’s devastated. He was the love of her life, her best friend; they had a wonderful relationship, unlike my late husband and me. Doug died over seven years ago and, even after all these years, I haven’t admitted it out loud to anyone, but god, it was a relief when he went. What’s that song by Bette Midler? You are the wind beneath my wings. Not in Doug’s case. He was the weight around my neck. He was a miserable sod and a crap lover. Oh, we’d go through the motions and all that, but making love with Doug was like trying to get a nicotine hit from one of those ultra-light cigarettes after years of smoking full strength. It all looked the same but didn’t reach the spot.
Doug never hit
