‘Come on!’

Count, I thought, like you’re counting small diamonds in sieves, or crumbs of precious metal, or the tiny pieces of stones that were crushed under the tyre of your car, that emerald, remember when you ran over it? Count like tributaries going to sea, like the hairs Alex left on the bed on the last morning before you ended up here. Seven hairs incidentally. Five lines now attached to you. Spells trouble. Count the days you whined for yourself. Count the number of times you watched The Simpsons and fell asleep. Count the number of lazy days you’ve wasted. Count the number of days you’ve wasted, hungover. Count the number of days you were late home for dinner. The number of days you stayed out until the next day.

Count the number of times some fuck told you to smile. ‘A smile is the prettiest thing you can wear, girls.’ Smile, love. G’wan. Prettiest thing you can wear. FFS. (Unless you’re a soldier or an undertaker or a surgeon or disciplining your children or a million other things you could be doing where a smile is wholly inappropriate.)

I laughed to myself, then suddenly as a bonesetter’s triumph, air came in, air. Just air, simple but lovely lapping popping air.

Alex was screaming wildly at me. I had a bag on my face and couldn’t reply, he was making an awful fuss and now he seemed to be holding on to Margaret Rose, really tight. He was always so gentle, but here he was now, going mad, screaming my name over and over and over again and he had an odd way of emphasising the end of my name. Aid. AID … I needed to see my children. I imagined them. I could retrace each face. Phew. Limbs long and awkward, the crease of their necks. Little fingers in paint. Worms in spring wriggling in their fists. Tears. Lost teeth. Santa.

And all through the house. Not a creature was stirring. Not even a mouse.

I lay naked and shaking. Young doctors fussed about with syringes and bags of fluids. No one considered a sheet, not even a T-shirt. Across the way, Claire, unfussed, picked up her glossy and sat back down as she flicked through it, keeping an eye on Alex and me in turn.

The balloon inflated and deflated.

Alex was a tragi-cross between withdrawal and a terrific solitude. Ms Jo Moran stood upright and all serious beside us, and Necktie stared out from behind her as he set about explaining things. ICU was jammed, RTA, I would have to stay put on the Ward, and no, they know it’s not ideal, no, everyone should calm down, everything would be OK, everyone just needed a little time out, calm down, calm, a hand-held telemetry and wires would play Big Brother. He was mostly counselling himself.

I was freezing.

The cancer was causing serious respiratory failure.

It was a shame that I hadn’t wanted treatment.

It really was a shame.