That Distant Citadel

We prepared to go to France with exhilaration. That our husband and father was being offered this chance to reclaim his life and health was a wonder, and that it was to be in France - France! - put something crazily exotic into my optimism. I would countenance no doubts, no worries. I countered all what ifs and perhapses with denial; nothing would go wrong; if there was a problem, we would fix it. We were going to be in the best place we could be. Which was true, in a way.

But perhaps my hope was being seduced by the glamour of a distant citadel making room for us, letting us in. A place of high style, France, where a beautiful language is spoken. Where clever people who have discovered how to cure husband F's problem had paid us attention, and said, come. Who were above the regime of damaging chemicals we were given, here; who had found another way, and were sending people home hearty and happy.

I could not wait. I brushed aside F's doubts. I would not listen to his fear.

Today, this is pain.

In those last few weeks at home F was miserable. His condition had brought him down to helpless inactivity - this for such an energetic man was anathema. He would sit in his armchair and watch endless sport, mute and depressed. Occasionally he would goad himself into his car, and taking our little dog, would set about some errand, returning home exhausted. Or he would spend hours on our veranda watching the sea, watching ships at anchor which never seemed to move but vanished or were replaced when one was not looking. Occasionally a ship would make its ponderous way across the horizon, or, in days of high wind, all would be facing the same way, their bulk indiscernibly moving to the swell and little brush strokes of white horses on the blue.

I busied myself with preparation. I had had a load lifted off my shoulders. We had a prospect - a trip, a stay in hospital, recuperation and Christmas, away from the hospital, it would be wonderful; back to the hospital for the inevitable checks and examinations and perhaps even hiccups but we would return home triumphant and well. My worst enemy, I thought, would be tedium, slight, unimportant, irksome tedium as I waited for F to get well. I would read, I thought, I would walk. My patience had been well honed by now. I was used to slowing down to the rhythm of an ill man.

The day dawned. Son B had arrived and as usual when he was with me it was joyous. As he lived in London and had been there for seventeen years, seeing him was happiness. We had done our quick trips to a mall, or to friends, or to the beach, we had talked and laughed, as we do, in the sheer novelty of being together, F joining in occasionally, going off to lie down as he had to when necessary. Son B would be escorting us to France and would hand us over to son M in Paris and he would take us on to our destination.

But today was the day we would get on that first plane, and the reality of moving a very ill man through three airports was daunting, involving wheel chairs and organisation and courage, but with Son B with us, I had no qualms.