I had slept well and caught up with friends, and I felt an unfamiliar calmness as I went about my chores without the constant pressure of his anxious interruptions.
Even Patrick noticed I was cheerful and relaxed, and asked why.
“Well,” I said, “I expect it is because I have been getting some sleep while you are in here…”
“That’s good,” he replied kindly. “I wonder why you weren’t sleeping very well before…”
But if I was feeling better, it was apparent that Patrick was still very poorly.
The deep-seated infection which had put him in hospital had been caused by his catheter: in place for more than a year, it had been a menace to society from the moment it was inserted.
It had not only eroded his urethra, but also worn away the neck of his bladder where the balloon which kept it in place was no longer sited properly.
As a result it had not been draining as fast or efficiently as it should have done and the build-up of stale urine had been the source of repeated infections.
On this occasion it had taken intravenous antibiotics to clear it up, but it was all too apparent that this latest bout of infection had taken its toll.
Patrick – already too thin – had lost ten more pounds in the previous three weeks: and he was so bony and weak it was now possible to close a thumb and forefinger around his wrist.
While the zimmer frame by his bed stood witness to the fact that he could now only shuffle slowly under the supervision of an occupational therapist – who could give me no assurance that he was still able climb stairs.
But looking at the huddled little figure curled up in bed, it seemed unlikely.
What was more certain was that our glass-walled shower at home would now represent a very clear and present danger if he were to fall – but how would I get him in and out of a bath?
No-one could tell me…
Meanwhile Patrick, who had twisted his glasses into a tangled heap of broken wire and lenses, was also more than usually confused – and troubled by “problems at work”.
“What sort of problems?” I asked, trying to gain some insight into his muddled mind.
“Well you know what the Ministry of Defence is like,” he said “and then there’s the new Wing Commander who has just started…”
His brow furrowed with the effort of trying to remember his imaginary day and I realised again how utterly exhausting it must be marshalling thoughts that scattered like herded cats.
All of which brought us to the $50,000 question – what happens now?
I had always said I would keep Patrick at home as long as I was physically able to do so, and as long as he was getting something out of it.
But it was obvious we had reached a crossroads and there were some difficult decisions to be made.
“You’ve got three options,” I was told by occupational therapy.
“Patrick can be discharged straight into long-term care…” and my heart contracted at what seemed like the ultimate betrayal.
“Or he can come home and we can try to put equipment into place which might help you manage him a bit longer.”
“Or we can discharge him to a dementia rehabilitation unit where they will assess him and we can decide from there…”
Anxious to defer a decision, I bought some time with option three.
I was barely coping with Patrick before he went into hospital and I was unwilling to accept him home until I knew exactly what his condition was now, and whether it would still be safe – or even possible – to care for him alone again.
He had already had one fall in the hospital where there was a willing team to pick him back up: at home there was just an arthritic granny with two replacement joints.
So I took his hand and explained what was going to happen, and in a rare moment of heart-breaking lucidity he said: “I just want what is best for you…”
Patrick had always wanted what was best for me and as I bent over to drop a farewell kiss on his forehead he said “that’s not a proper kiss” and caught me gently on the lips…
Then feeling like Judas, I slunk away home…