I was to follow the ambulance in our car to the hospital. It was 3am and the vehicle moved slowly, down the hill, past the road works and on towards the nearest hospital, the one with the terrible reputation. And I convincing myself that he couldn’t possibly be having heart failure, despite the excruciating stomach and chest pain, numb arms and feet, and of course, the fact that he has just turned 40.
Suddenly the ambulance, previously driving under the limit, just took off. Driving through the red light it sped away while I imagined the worst. How will it be to bring up our 4 boys alone? What will I tell them? How will I manage financially? He is definately going to be D.O.A (dead on arrival).
I desperately needed to calm the fear. I tried to change the story. I looked around and realised that the road had opened up, the works were long passed and the speed limit had increased enormously. That must be it. I turned on the radio to find an upbeat tune. I started singing along…. I ignored the sudden downpour, the heaviest rain we had had in over a year.
Thankfully, my new story was true. Arriving at the hospital safely, he was realised 4 days later with an explanation and a not terribly serious diagnosis (far better than we had imagined). He’s since returned to work and it already seems like it happened long ago.
And I’m left thinking about the stories we tell; how they determine the experience, they define our mindset and often our level of health.
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