A racing heart and a sweat, that surpassed a Summer's day. From the taxi, I made a call to my husband, twice without reply, after what seemed a lifetime, Andy returned my call and within moments, I had shared my angst and he too was burdened, with the fear of my up coming death. I was dying and I knew it! The tingling sensation had spread from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I am speaking in spurts, barely able to communicate in the language of my birth. It is almost a Winter's day but sweat is pouring from every part of my body, I am dying and I know it.J ust how long can it take to get from Pitt Street to RPA? Where are the sirens when you need them, why are the traffic lights conspiring to prevent my arrival at the place that might save me from dying? Eventually I am in the hands of those that can stop me from dying. What the hell does it matter, how old I am? So many questions, so little time! Never mind, what my name is, who'll walks the dogs, where the hell is Andy? I'm dying and I know I am.Wires on my chest and things in my veins, nurses enjoying a joke, a bed away, when are you going to give me something to save my life? My inner, good boy , screams, quietly so no-one is disturbed by my final moments. He's there, Andy's eyes are like a rabbit in headlights, quickly digesting the familiar scores on the doors, they're not good scream his eyes. BP way to bloody high, over way to bloody high, the heart racing apparently about to explode."It's the taxi driver, he wants to get paid" Shouts somebody, Andy disappears. Will he return before my parting breath? Is all I can think about. I am dying and I know I am. Water, you're giving me water! I need drugs and things, for God's sake save my life, I don't need bloody water.
Things don't feel so bad now. Andy is holding my hand. The doctor a pretty lady, could be my grand-daughter, I'm thinking. She's pulling up a chair, my bloods, that moment when she paused before delivering her news was stomach churning, they only sit down, when about to deliver bad news, must be very bad news."Mr Jones, your potassium levels are low you've had an anxiety attack." Is the precised version of the delivery. I was always very good at precis, I recall.Shame, echoes through my mind! You've made a fuss about nothing. Whatever, will I tell people? Whatever next? Tomorrow is next. "Do something nice together this weekend," Says - You could be my grand-daughter!
