In the nightmare, she sits on the edge of the bed as though about to stand but her arms are fighting off some imaginary assailant, her legs kicking to escape. 'It's okay,' he says, 'bad dream, wake up, come out of it', but she is awake and her eyes are wide with fright. He puts an arm around her shoulders: 'It's all right, I'm here.' She whimpers: 'Can't stop it.' She pushes a trembling leg against the wall to hold it still. 'What's happening to me?'
The ambulance arrives within a few minutes. It's now half past three in the morning. The two ambulance men are calm and professional, they persuade her to lie back on the bed, measure her pulse rate and blood pressure while her limbs twitch and writhe. They examine her eyes, take her temperature, write notes. It takes ages. They're not panicking. He watches them, watches her. His mouth has dried out, he can't swallow, can hardly speak. Glass of water. He tries to think what he should be doing. Get dressed, find some clothes for her.
'Right,' one of the ambulance men says, standing up. They pack up their equipment, prepare to take her away. He supplies them with a stout chair in which to carry her down the stairs and outside to the wheeled stretcher. The village is silent except for a breeze rustling dryly through the palm trees. The blue glow from the street lamp sucks all the colour from the world, turns her cheeks grey. 'It's all right,' he assures her again, 'we're on our way to the hospital'. He follows the stretcher numbly, trying to get his mind around what's happening, what he should do, what he should bring. He has remembered at least her medical card and her daily medicines to show the doctor.
The worst moment, absolutely the worst moment, is in the ambulance when she turns her head to ask him 'Have I had a stroke?' He can't answer, shakes his head, no way of knowing yet. 'I've had a stroke,' she decides quietly, and her face puckers into a tiny little sob. Just one. He will never forget that moment.
At the hospital they wheel her into an examination room, bright and white, with stainless steel trolleys in the corners, electronic equipment, flickering screens. He follows the stretcher into the room but they gently guide him out again and he is left standing in the entrance foyer, staring bewildered at the closed door. The receptionist behind the desk takes his wife's details, name, medical ID. He tries to tell her what happened and she nods sympathetically.
A nurse emerges briefly from the examination room to hand him a wedding ring. He stares at it. Why have they taken off her wedding ring? It turns him cold inside, holding his wife's wedding ring in his hand. He gives himself a little talking-to: don't be silly, it's just for safe keeping. But it sets his thoughts racing in terrible directions. He puts the ring into a zipped pocket in his wallet and returns to staring at the closed door of the examination room. The receptionist looks up from her keyboard, catches his eye and indicates the door to the waiting room. He'd be more comfortable in there.
And now an hour has passed and he has nothing to do but watch his reflection in the wide window. He stands and stretches, paces around the rows of empty plastic seats. A television screen in the corner displays a wild pop group with the sound turned off. They look crazed. There is no sound anywhere except an occasional distant clicking of busy heels. This is the nightmare, his brain keeps repeating. This is the nightmare you hoped would never happen, that changes everything. He has to stop himself from saying it aloud.
A doctor enters the waiting room and nods towards him. He leaps to his feet. The doctor is a tall and gaunt young man with a shaven head and casual clothes, no white coat, he doesn't look like a doctor at all. He looks tired. 'Your wife,' he says in careful English, 'is quite fine.' He has tripped up on that ridiculous English ambiguity 'quite'. Is she fairly fine, completely fine...
'She's okay?' The doctor nods. 'She's okay.' She has been admitted into the observation ward for the time being. Medication, tests. They can't yet be sure what happened. That's all he can offer in the way of reassurance.
He asks the receptionist if he can go in and see her now, but they won't let him. Visiting hour for patients under observation is ten thirty in the morning. For a moment he considers protesting - how can he just go away like that, abandon her alone with her thoughts and fears? But she is out of his hands now, her life and welfare depend on others. He tells the receptionist he'll come back at ten thirty. She smiles and nods: of course he will. Everyone is very kind and sympathetic.
It's still dark outside, stars twinkling through the first pale hint of dawn. He walks home on his own.
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