We Find Our Own Solution

It is now nearly two years since we took husband F to France. Son M, his wife P and baby V had travelled from San Francisco concerned about F's continued downward plunge. By now his health was deteriorating and despite frequent visits to the specialist in search of help with a regime of drugs (the cordarone, having irreparably damaged his lungs, was discontinued) no help was forthcoming. The doctors virtually shrugged and dismissed him. Substitute drugs were slowly, we were convinced, killing him.

Son M, child of this century, searched the Web and discovered that there was a surgical procedure which claimed to be curing thousands of people with atrial fibrillation. It was in fact being done all over the world - even in Johannesburg and Cape Town - but most prolifically and most successfully, in France and in the United States.

Our local doctors must have known about it! Husband F had only recently questioned the heart specialist about the possibility of some sort of surgery for his complaint and had received polite attention but was, as ever, dismissed. Only afterwards did it dawn on me just how callously he had been handled. He had virtually been sent him home to die; if the drugs did not suit and caused him endless and distressing side effects, well, that was the end of the matter.

In September by email we contacted the hospital in France which had a record of several thousand successful ablations and were told that there was a long waiting list. The procedure involved a local anesthetic and the burning off - ablation - of the nerves inside the heart which were causing fibrillations. The patient would spend only about 4 days in hospital and would be awake during the procedure, but their lists were full.

We have no time, I wrote. My husband is very ill. Come in December, they said - just weeks away!

I have a close friend who lives in both France and Cape Town. We could use her French house, she said, before and after the operation; it is standing empty. We could settle in for a few days, put F into hospital, after treatment take him back to the house for recuperation and Christmas and be reasonably near the hospital for check ups before coming home. Son M would meet us in Paris and take us to the house, he would be there for the duration; son B would come from London in order to help my husband and I on the journey from South Africa to Paris.

With such magnificent support it seemed that our troubles would soon be over, F would be cured of his debilitating heart condition and returned to as normal a life as possible, to his own inimitable joie de vivre. I rejoiced in the love and kindness shown us by friends and family and by the French medics, who had made room for him on their schedule, with compassion.

Husband F made one more visit to his heart doctor's rooms. "You are making a mistake," said the doctor. 'What would you have me do - sit here and die?" said F. The doctor shrugged. Nothing. No answer.