DAY 11,993

D-Day

On Saturday morning Bo was in much better form. He stayed in bed, enjoyed having breakfast there, and read. I brought over the radio from its shelf so he could listen to music if he wanted to. It was a bright sunny day and we both felt happy – it looked as if this particular crisis was over. The three pills were obviously well out of his system, he was smiling, his natural cheerful self.

At about three o’clock I went to the shopping centre in Carrickmines, to buy a new laptop. My old one was held together with Sellotape, and I had been promising to get a replacement for several months. I thought, this is the one thing I will do today, and then this problem will be solved for once and for all. I spent about an hour, perhaps an hour and a half, away from home, and in Currys I bought the laptop I am now using, from a very helpful salesman, who sold me quite a lot of additional bits and bobs – some are still in a bag somewhere in my bedroom, unused: they never will be. He kept the laptop, to install some sort of recovery programme on to it, and I was to collect it the following day, in the afternoon.

When I got home Bo was on the floor of our bedroom, in a corner at the opposite side from the door. He was prostrate, his pyjamas were wet, and he could not get up.

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know. I have wet my pants, I am incontinent.’

‘You’re not incontinent. That can happen to anyone. How did you get over here?’

I wondered if he had had a stroke. I did the checks you are supposed to do in these circumstances. His voice was normal. His eyes were normal. He could raise his arms. I did not think he had had a stroke.

I considered calling the ambulance. But the ambulance takes you to the local hospital, which is run-down and crowded. The last place Bo or I wanted him to be was that hospital.

I tried to help him up. But he couldn’t get up. I could not understand it.

I made a terrible mistake here. I should have called the ambulance, no matter where it would have taken him. This was a critical moment and I fluffed it. If I had known about private ambulances I would have called one. He could have been taken to the Blackrock Clinic. But I didn’t know about them, and I couldn’t get Bo into the car and drive him there. Like most people I have spoken to about this, I believed the only way you could get to Blackrock Clinic or the Beacon was under your own steam, in a car. There is a serious problem with the private hospitals in Ireland, which is that they have no emergency services – this is the case with the hospital Bo always attended, Vincent’s Private – or very limited services, 9 to 5, Monday to Friday. The regular ambulance won’t take you to the private hospitals, even if their emergency departments are open. There is an anomaly here, one more problem in the two-tier Irish health system. You can use your private hospital for consultations, operations, treatments that can be scheduled – but if you fall ill outside of office hours, you are likely to fall back into the public system.

I moved Bo close to the side of our bed, stopped trying to get him up – he was much too heavy – and made a bed for him on the floor. The fear of Loughlinstown was driving me, rather than concern for Bo or even for myself. Bo agreed that he didn’t want to go to the local hospital and that we shouldn’t call an ambulance.

He slept for a while on the floor, where he was comfortable. When he woke up he asked where am I? Then he got into bed, with some help from me. He slept, had some more tea and toast. He seemed to be okay. That night, I slept in the spare room next door in order not to disturb him. I did not know that I would never again sleep in the same bed as my husband, the bed we shared for almost thirty-one years.