Annie

 

Annie has been feeling unwell since Sunday. On Tuesday, she had a fibre-sound scan of the liver, booked since she was admitted to hospital and diagnosed with liver capsulitis. The results were posted online soon after and were disturbing: it is now reported to be Stage 4 liver failure. The hepatologist had asked many questions about possible causes for this, but none have come to light. Annie has not been a drug user or knowingly had hepatitis, and even for an obvious cause like alcohol, she was never a heavy drinker, enjoying an occasional glass of wine with a meal but not draining the bottle and keeping off spirits; indeed, Annie has not drunk anything at all for many months now. A forest of follow-up blood tests has been booked for Friday, to determine the severity and a possible cause. 

This news of severe liver failure has thrown our lives together into focus. Hitherto, being ten years older with advanced cancer, it was assumed I would die first, and Annie would be there to bear it with me. Suddenly, we face the possibility that it maybe I who does the nursing and am left. There is an episode the Scottish comedy, Still Game, where the oldies gather in the pub to lay bets on which of them will go next. It is a morbid game that Annie and I used to play when she had only her heart problems to shorten the odds. We would go through all the friends, neighbours and relatives within our generation and consider who might be first, or who might outlast us all. My dear brother Richard was always very long odds; he was so fit, lively and active we barely considered him a contender. Now the odds have shorted against my darling Annie, forcing me to consider more seriously a possible life without her. But I cannot; she fills every moment of my life, and when she is away from the house, or even just sleeping upstairs, life seems empty and frightening. We do not now have much in the way of adventures, but we do little things together; we are at the comfortable stage in a marriage where we know what each other is thinking, and what they are about to say often before the words come out. We think so alike on most things, we are as one. To lose Annie would not be to lose a good companion; it would be to lose myself and, like considering death, I cannot contemplate or imagine it.