Excursions and Hospital Visits

F lay in one of two ICU wards for six weeks. He was unaware most of the time but for us it was an ongoing, waking nightmare. However, we were immeasurably helped by others.

Almost at the beginning, when his illness seemed to be more of a hiccup than a disaster, L arrived from England and was greeted by Son B and I at the station and taken out for a completely happy meal. She would stay for a few days and she could speak perfect French. By then we had moved into a family run hotel some ten kilometres from the hospital. Son B came and went, as did Son M; I drove a hired French car on the odd side of the road but with L with me it was an adventure and I soon felt less than terrified about driving.

I do not clearly remember the sequence of events with L, other than she could talk with animation to doctors and then turn to us with an adequate explanation. She was immensely kind to give up her time for us and to brave such an unsavoury drama. We went back and forth from the unit and F's bedside, we waited in hospital corridors, we smelled and saw and walked the polished impersonality of those corridors and those swing doors and those all enveloping, crisp pale blue robes and it must have been immensely tedious for her. But she remains a loyal and caring friend and I will never forget what she did. Eventually she left on the train and went, no doubt, with relief back to her own life.

Friends from South Africa arrived on their own volition for five or six days. We had known T and N since the first days of our marriage; F had played rugby with T before even then. They also moved into that little hotel with me and we planned our days so that after breakfast and a little excursion in the morning, I would go to the hospital and they would meet me there later. I was only allowed to visit from 1 pm, once F had been nursed or turned or examined or mulled over; I would stay for seven hours at his bedside, and this I did each day.

When T and N arrived they would don the pale blue robes and take turns at a short visit with him. During their stay F was slightly coherent although gravely ill. It was difficult to see him so subdued and helpless but N is an essentially cheerful person and her bright smile must have seemed a welcome jolt of normality for him. I would try, at that stage, to feed him something for supper - yoghurt or stewed fruit; I knew that in normal circumstances F would have nothing to do with that sort of fare, but each mouthful for me was a triumph. It was bizarre and frightening but the fact that T and N were waiting in the bland little ante room for me was a comfort. From there we could go out for supper.

Each evening we had to find somewhere to eat. By reputation France has wonderful food but I could not stand the regional style of cooking with excessive cream and oddity; it could have had something to do with my state of mind but it was not for me. We found a Chinese restaurant and a fish place that was palateable and returned there more than once. T and N's patience and support was a breath of hope for me and I shall love them forever.

At one stage neither of my sons could be with me and I faced an interval completely alone in France. I telephoned a close South African friend who lives in Wales. Please come, I said, I need you. C arrived within a day, the third party to join me in that well remembered little hotel. C is a talented musician with a busy schedule of practice and professional piano playing; she is also not in the habit of journeying across Europe on her own, as she has a globe trotting and devoted husband, but for now she took herself onto two planes and a vexing journey to where I was waiting at the airport. She is serene and dear to me but somewhat talkative; she talked while I drove, or sat with embroidery while I kept vigil at the bedside, or talked while we ate at some restaurant, but her presence was a comfort and a never to be forgotten gesture of affection and loyalty.

We made many trips back and forth to the airport. I hired a series of cars. I became used to the route between our hotel and the hospital, the highway, the small suburban French roads, the whereabouts of the supermarket, the nearby places of interest one could drive to in the mornings. My visitors and I went to flea markets, small bakeries, villages, the city centre. We rode in my hire car or on a tram. We visited antique shops and department stores, we walked crowded malls or empty seaside roads and winter beaches.

My French improved. I can converse in a basic present tense; my accent is good, the work of one French teacher for five years who had been brought up in Paris; I have a reasonable vocabulary but anything faster than simple school level sends me into a spin although at times I could supply the French word for what was being sought in English.

The weird place we were in for those six weeks seemed to become more acceptable; the gentle presence of those friends eased me, made my pain less intense, gave me hope. Their acts of unselfishness - not to mention the house which was freely and generously lent to us (two hours from the hospital, however, and now impractical) and the knowledge of their love and support, made things seem better.