Grey Goes to Black

The day of the ablation dawned grey, the primary colour of winter. Son M and I ventured into the city that morning, exploring. Leading away from a very large cathedral is a long, pedestrianised street of shopping, so typical of a European city. But, like all tourists, we were seduced, and joined the throng of well wrapped citizens in their quest for Christmas shopping on quests of our own. I wanted, of all things, a certain lipstick. M patiently waited as I cruised through parfumerie after parfumerie, as if they could offer up something completely new. (Eventually I bought one, which proved to be one I had at home all the time).

Our thoughts were, of course, on F and what was happening to him. We had been told that the ablation would take several hours, so we did not go near the hospital until well into the afternoon. It actually took seven hours. When F was wheeled into his ward he was the colour of white paper, but conscious. He was not happy and looked as if he had - and he had - undergone a physical ordeal, as during the ablation a patient is conscious. But all had gone well, we were told, although they could not quite establish normal cardiac rhythm. That could be worried about later. Evidently, imperfection at first was reasonable and could be dealt with; more than one ablation was sometimes necessary.

M and I were jubilant that it was over. We did not like the look of F but neither of us said anything about it. We were content to leave him in the care of the nurses, and we went out for dinner. Our troubles were over, we thought; the worst had come and gone.

We returned to the hotel and our separate rooms, where I ran a bath. Shortly afterwards my phone rang. M - something is wrong, he said, I'm coming down to speak to you. The hospital had phoned. F had had a heart attack and was in Intensive Care. We should come to the hospital.

That was the moment it all began. We found the Intensive Care unit and from a pile of stiffly folded pale blue garments took, for the first time, a sterile robe in which we had to enter the ward. I grew to hate those enveloping and impersonal cotton robes.

As I write now, my heart constricts. This was the evening I tasted fear for the first time, it was the moment we entered a very dark tunnel.

F lay in that bed for a week, on a ventilator, mostly unconscious, at times pleading to have it removed. I cannot clearly remember those scenes; I only know that M and I were in agony with him; trying to reason with a man who was lost in a maze of drugs and hospital equipment and, when briefly conscious, was confused, unhappy and helpless. We had grave conversations with the doctors, who worried not only about his recovery but about vital organs such as kidneys. We were not to know that that very inactivity, that drug-induced near comatose state would be the eventual cause of his demise as he slowly lost battle after battle.

All we wanted was for him to emerge from the Intensive Care ward and be taken back to his own post-ablation private room, like all the other patients. And, seven days, later, he was. Our troubles were over.