asleep in the boat, the first and only time, as usually he hated going on the water. Anne and I took over the rowing, allowing Ernie to sit back and relax for the first time that day and enjoy the scenery, which was superb. The sky was bright blue and the water like glass reflecting the surrounding hills. The fish were popping up all over the place, even right beside the boat, but who cared? It was much too beautiful and peaceful to bother about fishing.

Another story which also illustrates the changeability of the weather, and which I feel I must relate, happened not to me but to my sister Bumpy when she was a little girl. I think it was during the First World War when Father was in the Army, Mother had rented a cottage at Kilkrennan, the little village on Loch Awe, and was staying there with Nanny, Moira, Bumpy, Harry and Nicola, who was still a baby. One beautiful day they decided to hire a boat and row over to Port Sonachan on the other side of the loch. On the way back it began to rain, hard driving rain which soon had them all soaked and began to fill up the boat with water. Mother took the oars and rowed as hard as she could for the western shore while Nanny baled out the boat, which seemed to fill up as rapidly as she emptied it. But was the six-year old Bumpy at all frightened? Not a bit of it. She was fascinated by something much more interesting. As Nanny stooped and straightened repeatedly to bale out the water, so she became wetter and wetter, and as she became wetter so the brand new hand-knitted jumper she was wearing got smaller and smaller. Bumpy sat in the boat with her eyes riveted on Nanny's back as the space between the edge of her jumper and her skirt gradually widened until most of her bare back was exposed to the elements!

It was on that same holiday that one of the family catch-phrases came into being. It was a wet drizzly day when a little girl from the village knocked at the cottage door and asked if any of the children would come out to play. She was gently told that as it was raining they would be staying in today. "Och", was her reply, "a wee bit o'rain winna kill you." Since then we have never allowed the weather, unless very extreme, to interfere with our activities and if visitors say, "Don't you think it is a bit wet to go for a walk today?", the reply invariably is, "Och! a wee bit o'rain winna kill you".

You will see from these stories that we all grew to love mid-Argyll very much and, as we were such frequent visitors, we decided in a half-hearted sort of way that it would be nice to buy a little cottage there. We began, also in a half-hearted sort of way, looking at cottages for sale in the area but did nothing much else about it. This went on for at least six months or even more. We had only looked at one cottage which we liked (but which, we decided, would make too long a journey for short weekends), when I noticed a small cottage for sale near the south end of Loch Awe. It was very reasonably priced and was set in an acre of ground with a burn running through it. We decided to see for ourselves and on my first Saturday off, we drove up to Argyll. It was at the end of January, very cold but clear and sunny, and when we saw the little traditional cottage with its blue tin roof set in such beautiful surroundings - with meadows, not forest, on either side - we both decided: "Yes! this is the one". And within a few days it was ours.

We never regretted it and came to love it more and more. It became, in our minds at least, our real home and the little house in Barntongate just a stopover from which we both earned our daily bread.
 

                          * * * * *
 
 
 

                           CHAPTER 18

The Seventies came to an end and, looking back, they seem to have beena time of respite and many happy memories. But already there were ominous clouds on the horizon. Ernie had several episodes of excrutiating back pain during which he had to crouch on his hands and knees to get any relief, however slight, and painkillers did very little to help. He also had an attack of severe pain, swelling and inflammation in his ankle, when the slightest movement - even hanging his leg over the edge of the bed - was impossible, because the weight of his foot on the joint caused such severe pain. He was seen in various hospital departments but no accurate diagnosis was made beyond 'degenerative changes'. But somehow one felt something more serious was going on - his symptoms were so acute and his general health was not as good as one would have liked.

However, he remained cheerful between acute episodes, but his narcolepsy (from which he had suffered, although undiagnosed, from his youth) was getting worse. This caused him great embarrassment as it caused him to fall seemingly asleep at any moment, however inconvenient, and he was liable to lose control of his muscles; eg. laughter often caused him to lose control of his head, neck and arms. Occasionally all muscles would go and he would collapse in a heap on the floor. He would look unconscious but, in fact, would be aware of everything going on around him and would recover completely in a few moments. This did not happen very often, I am glad to say, although in his last few years these episodes became very much more frequent.

Despite all this, the main worry was Donald, Anne's husband. From the start of the illness he never had a respite period and the course of the illness went slowly but steadily on. Soon after Anne moved in with him he lost the power of his legs completely and was no longer able to stand, even for a few moments. He and Ernie enjoyed a game of cribbage and would play for hours together but gradually we noticed he had difficulty holding the cards and, inevitably, the time came when he was no longer able to play cards, although Ernie would still sit with him for an hour or two while Anne and I took the dogs on a country walk. Donald's world was gradually shrinking as he became weaker and found it impossible to sit in his wheelchair for more than brief periods. His bedroom became the hub of the house, where family and visitors congregated - even just to watch television if Donald was too tired to talk.

He was taken into hospital for minor surgical procedures to make him more comfortable - for example, to enable him to straighten his legs and to stop the troublesome spasms. Each time he was admitted he would be improved in one way - for instance his legs - but he would develop something else e.g. horrific bed sores. He would be in hospital longing to get home to Anne, who had the task of nursing him down to a fine art. She could turn him and lift him with seemingly effortless ease. She would dress his bed sores every evening and Donald preferred her to do this rather than the District Nurse, who came in to dress them in the mornings, as Anne had learnt to move him without causing him pain.

His general health was by now causing great concern and he had several acute infections which were very nearly fatal, but good nursing and medical care pulled him through. Anne kept herself frantically busy, for apart from looking after Donald and Susie she decorated the house, knitted, sewed, made lampshades, laid carpets, worked in the garden. She had no time to think of the future.

We went over to Auchterarder as often as we could and there was always the telephone, that truly wonderful invention. Many an evening at Barnton the telephone would ring. Lifting the receiver I would say, 'Hello, Dr White speaking". "Hello Mum", would come a small voice, "it's me, Anne." "Oh Hello Dear. How are you?" "I'm fine. How are you?" "Fine. How's Donald?", and then she would begin to talk, usually in a very quiet voice, as Donald would be dozing, hopefully, and she would not want him to hear what she was saying. Sometimes the reason for the call would be for specific advice but often just for a chance to talk and voice her fears to someone who understood and loved them both, but who would not get too emotional and increase her worries.

Nowadays the conversation is often the other way round. The 'phone will ring in Anne's house. She will answer it: '883 536' "Hello! It's me" "Oh hello me. How are you?" "Fine! How are you?" "Fine", and gradually into the main purpose of the 'phone call. It is hard to break away from these familiar rituals.

Just before Donald became totally incapacitated, but when he was beginning to find it a great effort to sit in his wheelchair, a large white envelope came fluttering through the letter box to land on the floor in the hall. Great was their excitement as they opened the envelope, and greater still when they read its contents: an invitation to the Royal Garden Party at Holyrood Palace.

The next few weeks they were busy making plans - what to wear? How to get Donald there without tiring him too much? It gave Donald's active mind a chance to make plans and he and Anne would talk well into the small hours of the morning, discussing ways and means.

It was eventually decided they would come to our house early in the morning where Donald could rest in bed, not getting into his wheelchair until it was time to leave, and where he could rest again after the great event before setting off for home. I know I am slightly biased but they did indeed make a handsome pair; Donald with his black hair, dark eyes and smart blue velvet jacket, and Anne standing behind him in a soft pink two-piece outfit, her fair hair such a contrast to his. I was not at the ceremony but seemingly when Prince Charles came into their group he came straight towards them and spoke to them for several minutes with great tact and charm. That such a simple gesture can cause such happiness and pleasure never ceases to amaze me, but it does and since then, and for that reason, I won't have a bad word said about Prince Charles.

I took several photographs of Anne and Donald as they set off for the Palace and again when they arrived back, but I am ashamed to say there was something wrong with the camera and not one came out.

Donald continued on his downward path and the 'phone calls to and from Auchterarder became more amd more frequent. One evening, around 10pm, the telephone in Bartongate rang. "Hello, Dr White speaking". "Hello Mum. It's me, Anne", and I immediately was alarmed by the note of suppressed hysteria in her voice. "What's the matter, Darling? Is it Donald?" "Oh Mum. It's terrible! You won't believe it." "Won't believe what, Anne? For goodness sake tell me". "I can't bear to think about it, but I've got to tell someone and I don't know what to do". (All this in a very quiet voice as she did not want Donald to hear.) "Anne. Take a deep breath and then just tell me." "Oh Mum, it's awful but I'll try". Pause. "Well, Donald's catheter wasn't running properly and it was time to change his dressings. Anyway I tried to clear the catheter with a syringe but all that came away was some blood and gunge. I then turned him over to look at the bed sores on his back and the end of the catheter was sticking out! Oh Mum, he's all eaten away. His body's rotting away. What will I do? I didn't tell Donald. I just quickly put a dressing on his back and left the room and phoned you".

"Oh my poor Darling. How can you bear it? Do you want me to come through?" "No, I'll be alright." "Well, go back to Donald and say nothing. Pull the catheter back a bit and it will probably start running again. If it does, finish his dressings and phone me again. You'll have to let his doctor know in the morning but there is nothing they can do at present. But if it doesn't, you had better phone the doctor tonight. In either case phone me later and let me know what's happening."

Since then the vision of the catheter protruding through the sacral bedsore, flashed through her mind's eye like a recurring nightmare for many years to come.

At that time we seemed to live from one crisis to another but, despite increasing infirmities, Donald struggled to hold on to life. You could almost see his effort to stay alive. Towards the end he had virtually no use of his arms and he could not hold up his head. He loved a cigarette and had to be helped to smoke them. I see young Susie holding a cigarette to his mouth, from which he tried to take a draw, but even that was very difficult for him by now. We were driving home from Auchterarder one day when Ernie said to me, with tears in his eyes, "Do you know what Donald finds the worst thing about his illness?" "No", I replied, "What did he say?" "He said it was not being able to give Anne a cuddle or even hold her hand. He said he did not want to die but he hoped he would not live so long that his relationship with Anne began to deteriorate." "What did you say in reply?" "I just said that it must be Hell to love someone so much and not be able to show it physically, even in the simplest way of holding hands. And then tried to reassure him that their love for each other was so strong he need have no fear that it would begin to fade." At that I leant over and kissed him on the cheek, and to Hell with the Highway Code.

Inevitably the time came when the doctors gave him only a few days to live. He was very weak, he could barely speak, his breath was shallow and frequent, his abdomen grossly swollen and his pulse rapid. It was decided I would go and stay with Anne. I found her in a dazed condition, sitting beside Donald with his hand between hers. Donald was propped up on the pillows, very gaunt with his eyes set far back in his sockets. His breath was shallow and rapid but he could still speak, though faintly, and his mind was still clear. "Hello Pam", he said with a faint smile, as I came in, "I am glad to see you." "Hello Donald. I've managed to get a locum so I'll be staying". "That's good. We need you", he whispered, and closed his eyes.

That day the house was full of people with a great deal of coming and going. Donald's father and sisters were there and naturally very anxious, although sometimes I felt that they were so used to seeing Donald acutely ill that they found it quite hard to realise that this time he really would not improve, even slightly. The nurses and doctors came and went and so did friends and neighbours. Donald managed to see them all, even though briefly, but around 8 pm every one went home with (promises that we would immediately get in touch if there was any change in his condition), and when I told Donald there was no one in the house except himself, Anne and I, he gave an enormous sigh of relief and said: "Thank goodness."

Anne and I sat quietly beside Donald for two hours, not speaking but trying to relax a little before the doctor called at 10 p.m., as arranged. When he saw how weak Donald was and how difficult his breathing he suggested to Donald that he gave him an injection to make him more comfortable. For a fleeting moment Donald's eyes opened wide with apprehension and he said, "Is this it, doctor? Has the time come?" Although suffering terribly he was still fighting. He did not want to die. "No", said the doctor", but it will ease your breathing and help you to sleep. "OK then, go ahead."

After the doctor had left, Anne curled up in Susie's bed to try and get some much needed rest and I made myself as comfortable as I could beside Donald. He soon drifted off to sleep but I could see, and feel, his poor heart fluttering and struggling to keep going. The hours were long and lonely as I watched over him, hoping he would just slip away and yet, dreading the moment. I was in that peculiar trance-like state between waking and sleeping when suddenly there was a change in his breathing and he opened his eyes and said in a barely audible voice. "Is Anne there?" "No, but I'll get her if you want." "Yes, please", he whispered.

I ran through and wakened Anne. By this time his breathing was very erratic and his voice the merest whisper. Anne knelt beside him while I called the doctor and also his young sister Jennifer, who was very anxious to be with Donald as much as possible.

Somehow he found the strength to say: "Is Jennifer here? Are my sisters here? Tell them ...", but his voice faded and the sentence was never completed.

After what seemed like an age but was, in fact, ten minutes at the most the doctor arrived, and as he came round the bedroom door Donald stopped breathing. Hastily grabbing the stethoscope out of his bag, he placed the bell on Donald's chest.

"Doctor", said Anne in a taut voice, "the tube has come off your stethoscope", and sure enough it had. Hurriedly pushing the tube on to the head of the stethoscope, he listened once again but it did not really matter. Donald was dead. And at that moment Jennifer came running in the back door.

As soon as the doctor left, Anne propped Donald up on his pillows, washed his face and brushed his hair. He looked so peaceful, and fitter than he had done for many a day. It was as if he was sleeping peacefully and we also felt at peace. We were reluctant to leave him - the three of us sat quietly talking beside Donald for a couple of hours, before morning and the start of another day.

A few days later a funeral service was held in the house, conducted by the same minister who had married them three years before. Anne looked dramatically beautiful, her shining fair hair contrasting with her black dress, and in her hand she held a single red rose. I could have wished to see her weep a little more but Susie and I provided the tears as we wept in each others arms.

Three weeks later we were to weep again. Ernie and I were up at the cottage with Susie for our annual summer holiday. Toro was with us - by now he was sixteen years old, deaf and almost blind, but luckily he stil retained his sense of smell and was as affectionate and loyal as ever. He would follow me round the garden, walking slowly and painfully behind me. At night he slept on his own sheepskin rug in the corner of our bedroom. We had only been at the cottage a few days when, one night, we were awakened from a deep sleep by the most dreadful noise; a mixture between a yelp and a scream, lasting only a few seconds. I leapt from our bed, hitting my head on the sloping roof in the process, and rushed over to Toro. He just looked at me and gave his tail a feeble wag. I sat with him for a few minutes and then went back to bed and tried to sleep. I was just dozing off when again came that dreadful cry. What should we do? We were not on the phone and did not want to disturb our neighbours. After much thought we decided to give Toro a strong painkiller and take him to the Vet in Lochgilphead first thing in the morning.

Ernie went downstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and I to find my medical bag. Again that heartrending sound came from upstairs. We both rushed up to find him collapsed halfway down the stairs where he had tried to follow us. Ernie picked him up gently and tenderly and carried him down to the living room and placed him on the best and softest armchair, covered by his very own sheepskin rug. I placed a strong painkiller under his tongue and he fell into a deep sleep, punctuated now and again by a feeble yelp. After a wee while Ernie said: "Look, there's nothing more you can do just now. Go upstairs and try and get some sleep. I'll sit up with Toro and wake you if there is any change."

I did what I was told and tried to sleep but it came only light and fitfully. Just before seven I heard the never-to-be-forgotten cry again and hastened downstairs to join Ernie. Kneeling down beside Toro, who was still able to give his tail a faint wag, we both decided we could delay no longer. While Ernie set off down the lane to our neighbours to beg the use of their 'phone, I continued kneeling beside our old friend, gently stroking his head and whispering sweet nothings in his ear. As soon as Ernie returned, we gave Toro another opiate and placed him and his rug on the back seat of the car, with his head on my knee. By this time Susie was awake and dressed and we were on our way - to Toro's release from suffering and to the close of another chapter in our lives. He had been with us so long and had been so much part of the family. In later years especially he had been with me all the time - coming to work with me, waiting patiently in the car while I was in the surgery or on calls, sleeping under our bed, coming on holiday. Thinking of these things, it was a sad and dejected trio that arrived back at the cottage, with a large plastic bag containing all that remained of Toro and his sheepskin rug.

We had laughingly reserved a space for Toro in the garden some years before, under a large stone which Ernie and I had levered up into the standing position after two hours hard struggle with crowbars and pickaxe. I had been planting a lavender hedge when I came upon this stone. I tried to lever it out of the way with the pickaxe but it was no use. The more earth I removed the more I realised what a large stone it was. After an hours hard struggle I gave up and called on Ernie for help. It took the two of us at least another hour and two crowbars to lever it into the standing position, half below ground level and half above. Standing back to admire it, we jokingly agreed it would do admirably as a grave stone for Toro, and so it became.

After we had unsuccessfully tried to eat a little breakfast we went into the garden with pickaxe and shovel, and Susie and I watched while Ernie dug a deep hole under the stone. We had wrapped Toro in his rug and thus he was laid carefully in his grave. Later I planted a rose on his grave but, sad to say, it never flourished. But he does have the stone, with his name engraved by Nick, at his head, and a lavender hedge at his feet.

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                           CHAPTER 19

As will be seen from the preceding chapter, 1982 was a sad time for all of us, but there was one event that helped to lighten up our lives and that was the birth of Katrina Lucy Urquhart, commonly known as Katie. Vivienne and Alan had decided, after seven years of marriage, that it was time they started a family and, accordingly, on 17 January 1982 at the Simpson Memorial Maternity Pavilion, Kate was born - a chubby little thing with very fair hair and a delight to us all. Soon after her delivery Ernie arrived up at the ward with an enormous bouquet of flowers and quite the largest basket of fruit you have ever seen. Viv gorged herself on the many varieties of fruit with the result that poor little Katie, who was breast-fed suffered an attack of diarrhoea. Being a vegetarian, she used to find it quite difficult to get adequate food while in hospital, so every day I used to take slices of quiche and vegetarian pasties in to her, to supplement her diet. Mother and child both did well and were soon home in their little flat in Westerhailes.

As both parents were unbelievers, Kate was not christened, but we held a delightful family party when she was about 8 weeks old. Anne and Donald were not able to attend as, by this time, Donald was too weak and ill to leave his bed, and when Katie was five months old she attended Donald's funeral - sleeping peacefully in the corner of Anne's sitting room while the funeral service was held.

As the Eighties progressed they became increasingly a time of anxiety - anxiety for Anne's state of mind and anxiety for Ernie's physical health. After Donald's death Anne became very tense and almost aggressively cheerful. One sensed the cheerfulness was false and I, at least, was waiting for something to snap and the fall from the high on which she was riding.

Also Ernie's health was giving me cause for concern - it was hard to pinpoint but I could almost see him ageing and, apart from periodic acute episodes of joint pains, various muscles in his body were obviously wasting. All the same he kept cheerful and so did I.

In the spring of '83 we had a prolonged visit from Big Nick, as we now called him, and his new wife Louise, a beautiful fair-haired girl who is a highly trained nurse. They had been living in America and had returned to this country while waiting for their Green Card for the USA to come through. They did not spend all their time with us but divided it between the different families and friends. They seemed very suited to each other; both had thick fair hair and, in good weather, even dressed alike in white shirt and white trousers. He still had the tendency to kiss and cuddle, and Katie developed the same tendency to blink rapidly when Nick came into the room, in the same way as her Mother had done more than twenty years before.

As often as possible we went up to the cottage, sometimes on our own and sometimes with various members of the family. Nick and Louise came with us fairly often and Nick set to, helping to dig and design a large lily pond which I was making in the garden. It was a fine spring that year and altogether a very happy time. We saw plenty of young Nick as we had maintained good relations with Lesley and, as Viv and Alan lived not far away, they were frequent visitors to the house. Anne, being on her own, also came to us whenever she could and Susie, who often came to visit us, either in Barnton or at the cottage, developed a close relationship with young Nick, more like that of brother and sister than that of cousins. Ernie was grandad to them all - ever patient but quite firm, standing no nonsense but willing to talk to them, telling them stories and explaining things to them, drawing for them and playing board games and, above all, setting high standards of behaviour.

He loved them all and like most grandparents had a tendency to relate stories about them to anyone who would listen. One such was about the time Susie and Nick staged a puppet show in the cottage. It was in the late autumn, when evenings were dark and the weather damp and windy. The two children had been busy all day in their bedroom with paper, cardboard and scissors. In the evening, after supper, we settled down in the living room with a large fire burning in the stone grate, the curtains drawn and the electric light turned off. Susie and Nick had made a cardboard theatre which they placed on the back of a large armchair in the corner, and then disappeared behind it. Ernie shone a powerful torch onto the stage and the show began. First of all we were privileged to see a production of a fairy story, which included an excellent rendering of "Somewhere over the Rainbow", and later we had a variety show with excellent one-line jokes and quick repartee. The audience enjoyed themselves greatly, as did the performers - I do not know which of us the most.

To get back to the summer of '83. One weekend we were at the cottage on our own and, after kneeling on the floor to do some minor repair, Ernie said, as he straightened up, "My knees are a bit sore. I'll have to stop".

Later that afternoon he said, "My knees are still aching, especially the right. I think you had better drive on the way home so that I can stretch out my legs."

I drove back to Edinburgh and, when we reached home, Ernie walked stiffly into the house but insisted on helping me unload the car, despite my protests. He had a restless night inspite of his usual anti-inflammatory tablets. "I'll take a day off work to rest and then I'll be fine", says he. I went off to work, concerned but not over-anxious. When I came home, his knees were obviously swollen and walking was very painful. The next day the pain was worse and he was unable to get out of bed. "Look Ernie", I said, "You must let me call the doctor". "Oh what can they do? See what I'm like tomorrow." That night he was in real pain and he was only too pleased when I 'phoned the doctor first thing in the morning.

I had to go to work as I was unable to get a locum at such short notice, but left instructions for the doctor just to walk in and go through to the bedroom. Sitting in the surgery, listening to people who all seemed to have minor complaints of no consequence, it was extremely difficult to give my full attention. All I could think of was Ernie; how he was and if the doctor had been yet. As soon as I could I was zooming along Queensferry Road towards home.

I hurried through to the bedroom to find Ernie not only in severe pain but also very irate, because a doctor from the practice had called but had not even looked at his knees. I could hardly believe it. All she had done was to leave a prescription for another anti-inflammatory drug without even looking at his knees, which were by now grossly swollen. I was on the 'phone immediately to the Practice, asking for another doctor to visit, as Ernie did not ever want to see the first one again. They said it would then have to wait till the next day. Ernie agreed. There was now no question of taking him to the hospital directly, as he was unable to walk and he did not really want to antagonise our own GP's. But I was wishing I had never been in touch with our own GP's in the first place. I have always found it very difficult as a lady doctor, or female medic as they call us, to get the right mode of action when dealing with the medical problems of my family. Sometimes when the children were small, if I dealt with a particular problem myself or went direct to a consultant, I felt resentment from our GP. But on the other hand, if I called him out I would be made to feel: "Why hadn't I dealt with it myself?" It is very difficult, and I still have long debates with myself on the best course of action when any of the family are ill and ask my advice.

Anyway the next morning another doctor from the Practice called. This time I was at home as I had managed to get a locum, but even if I hadn't been there I'm sure action would have been taken. He took one look at Ernie's knees and said, "My God!" It's hospital for you, Mr Epps". "Thank goodness, Doctor", I said, "but don't you think he's slightly jaundiced? His urine is rather dark."

"Oh no", was the reply, "that's just dehydration" "Oh well", says I to myself, "we'll see".

By now his knees were the size of rugby balls and he was in extreme pain. The slightest movement made him cry out in agony. The doctor gave him a major painkiller to ease the pain but, even then, getting him onto a stretcher and into the ambulance was a slow and difficult process. The ambulance men could not have been kinder or more careful, but Ernie was still a big man, and manipulating the stretcher round the corners of the bedroom door and then round the front door was quite a palaver.

We arrived at Casualty at the Western General soon after 1 pm. and, before long, were seen by the Orthopaedic Registrar who said they would have to take fluid off Ernie's knees. I waited outside while this procedure was carried out and when the Registrar appeared through the curtain of the cubicle he told me they had taken off nearly a litre of fluid from the right knee, and half that amount from the left. It was no wonder he was in pain.

They wanted to hold on to him until some lab reports came through, and in the meantime he would be wheeled through to the day bed area to wait there. So we waited. Ernie was still on the hard trolley, with both legs in enormous splints from his groin to his ankles, and very soon his poor back began to complain. So, what with the pains in his knees and the pain in his back, he was far from comfortable. After much cajoling we managed to persuade a nurse to prop him up a little which did give him some ease and shortly after that I hear the nurse say to Sister that there was bilirubin in Mr Epp's urine. So I had been right in my suspicions of a mild jaundice. We were now alone in the large room, with Ernie on a trolley, myself either sitting beside him or wandering aimlessly about, and a nurse popping in occasionally to see how we were. At intervals I would trot along the corridor to bring us back much needed cups of tea from the canteen, but mostly we waited and waited. Ernie was in too much pain to relax and I became aware of a slight change in his personality - not exactly confusion, but a slight irrationality perhaps. He desperately wanted to go home to his own comfortable bed or even into a hospital bed. "It won't be long now", they said, "We are waiting for the lab results".

And so we continued to wait, mostly in silence, when suddenly a loud booming voice rang out: "The only way they will let me out of here is in a hearse." But nobody paid any attention.

The hours passed slowly and by six o'clock, sensing my growing impatience, Sister came up to me and said: "I think you should go home now Mrs Epps. It won't be long now and we will let you know as soon as we hear from the lab." "Oh well. I'll go home and get something to eat and if I haven't heard from you I'll come back."

That was at 6 p.m. At 6.15 I was home and putting on the kettle when the 'phone rang.

"Hello. Is that Mrs Epps? This is Sister from the Western General Hospital. We have decided to send your husband home. I have ordered the ambulance".

I snatched myself something to eat - the first meal since breakfast - and settled down to wait once again. If there is anything in this world that I hate, it is waiting. By eight o'clock I could stand it no longer and was on the 'phone again to the Western. "Where's my husband?" I pleaded.

"Oh Mrs Epps. I'm sorry but we couldn't get an ambulance. He is just leaving now." "Thanks very much. Sorry to be such a nuisance"
 
Forty minutes later I saw the ambulance draw up outside. I opened the front door and went through to the bedroom to prepare the bed. Ten minutes later there was still no sign of Ernie and, going to the front door, I saw the ambulance men struggling with the stretcher half in and half out of the ambulance, trying to decide the best way of moving him without causing him unnecessary suffering. When at last they did manage to bring him in I overheard one of the ambulance men muttering under his breath: "That damned hospital! Sending a man home in this condition."

After the men had left, with my profuse thanks, I set about trying to make Ernie comfortable but this was no easy matter. With the weight of the splints and bandages and the pain caused by trying to tighten his leg muscles, he was unable to move his legs, which lay like two helpless tree trunks in the bed. After several cups of tea and a cigarette (for which his whole system had been crying out) he decided he needed a pee. What to do? We did not have the proper bottle and there was no way he could get out of bed and, to complicate matters, he was now becoming slightly uncoordinated. I won't go into details but somehow we managed it with only the minimum of spillage, and I even raised a slight giggle from old Ern - a thing I hadn't heard for several days.

The next morning the ambulance men called for him and again the hospital sent him home.

It was the same the next day, and each time the ambulance men had a struggle and wondered, like ourselves, why they did not admit him. The pain in his knees may have been fractionally better but his general condition had worsened. He was in an obviously toxic state and quite uncoordinated. He even had difficulty smoking a cigarette and we had to make sure he didn't try to smoke while alone. By now the family had gathered round and many were there to share the burden - Anne and Susie, Viv and Alan with little Katie, and Keith, Ernie's younger son. We kept the door to the bedroom open and some one was always popping in to see how he was. But even then we caught him lying in bed with a cigarette in one hand and a lit match in the other, though unable to get the two to meet.

Nick and Louise had been away for a few days, but when they rang and I told them the state of affairs, they said: "Right! We will be with you first thing in the morning, and when Ernie goes to the Western we will come with you and see that they either admit him or get a second opinion."

So the next morning Ernie set off once again in the ambulance and we three followed in the car about half an hour later. We marched into the hospital three-abreast ready to do battle, only to be met by a doctor who said, "Your husband is to be transferred to the Northern General, Dr White. We are just waiting for the ambulance now."

We waited in the cubicle beside Ernie making desultory conversation and when the ambulance took him away we followed on close behind. We entered the door of the hospital together, and there waiting for us in the hallway was a smiling doctor. Immediately I felt my anxieties slip away and I knew he would get the care and concern he needed. Ernie had a thorough examination, after which the doctor said he needed urgent admission and investigation. We all agreed on that point, and it was with a lighter heart that we finally left Ernie and treated ourselves to a nice lunch and a bottle of wine.

Several days later they came up with the correct diagnosis after finding calcium crystals in the exudate from his knees. Pseudo-gout, a rare bone disease where calcium crystals form in the joints, causing intense inflammation and pain and, eventually, the laying- down of calcium in and around the joints. That had been the cause of his bouts of acute back pain and, after showing me the X-rays of his back, they said it was "the worst spinal column" they had ever seen, and how he had managed to keep going, they did not know.