September 7th - The Fourth Anniversary.

Four years ago today, my husband was fighting for his life...well HE wasn't - but the medical team at the Northern Hospital certainly were. Our GP had diagnosed him with pneumonia around 7 pm and sent him to hospital immediately. The first hospital we went to was a private hospital and didn't have an emergency room, so they called an ambulance to take Ken to one of the bigger public hospitals. I rode up front with the driver, and the sirens were on all the way there. I didn't dare look behind me to see what the paramedics were doing to keep Ken alive. When we got to the hospital they raced him past everyone else in Casualty, and within minutes there must have been about 12 people milling around him, taking samples of everything, doing X Rays, and pumping him full of God only knows what. I called Ken's sister, and she arrived with her daughter, who is a nurse. I went to pieces completely when they arrived, and the three of us were escorted to a private waiting room where kind nurses gave us cups of tea and calmed me down. It was hours later when a doctor came in to tell us Ken had been put on a life support system, but the outlook was not good.

The next few days were a blur of constant phone calls and hospital visits. On the evening of September 11, I was channel surfing cable t.v., not really concentrating on anything, my mind on Ken. When the first plane hit the WTC, I wondered what Spielberg movie this was? But then the second plane went in, and I realised that it was Fox News live, not a movie. I felt like my little world was collapsing around me. The next day, Ken's doctor told me he was going to do a tracheotomy (sp) to help Ken start breathing again, and I said "What's the point, he's going to die, isn't he?" The doctor looked shocked and said "Don't say that - he might hear you!" (He didn't - I asked him later!) But I was so depressed, I just couldn't see anything good happening any more.

As you will have figured out if you have been reading my previous posts, Ken survived to get on with his life pretty much as before, but with one major change - he quit smoking. From 50 cigarettes a day for 45 years, to zilch - nothing. I have never smoked, so I can only imagine how difficult it has been for him, and he says that now and then, he is tempted to have a smoke - but just for a fleeting second - then it's gone. I am so proud of him for hanging in there; we both know it would be (almost) instant death if he were to start again, as he has advanced emphysema, which will inevitably kick in as he gets older. But we aren't thinking about that for now. Love you heaps, dearest.