But What Comes After? by Ruth Leon

Author:Ruth Leon [Ruth Leon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781849018920
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2011-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Seven

After Sheridan’s stroke in November 2002, Peter was always there to manage our difficult home and office life, and to make me laugh when fear, anger or despair threatened to overwhelm me. He wasn’t any more successful at getting Sheridan out of bed than I was but he backed me up when necessary and was always on call to take us to doctors’ appointments and hospital visits, no matter how inconveniently they were scheduled.

When I went to the theatre on my own, he drove me if I wanted company or stayed behind with Sheridan to make sure he wasn’t alone if I didn’t. He was always one step ahead of me, trying to anticipate what I might need or what might make Sheridan a scrap more comfortable. He had finally seen off our secretary, so he and Hannah took care of us.

During a brief manic period earlier in the year Sheridan had agreed to write not one but two books for his old friend, the publisher Jeremy Robson, and had signed contracts for them before I could stop him. As the year drew on it became clear that there was no way he could deliver them without help and I was busy on a single-byline book so he asked his friend Paul Webb to assist him.

By the time Paul had done the research Sheridan wasn’t up to writing much at all so I took on both projects and tried to write them myself. Jeremy had been very patient but he had deadlines to meet. Somehow, I wrote the first draft of both of them, assuming that I would be able to get Sheridan at least to look at them and make suggestions for the final manuscripts. Eventually, the books went to Jeremy without Sheridan’s even glancing at them. He just couldn’t focus.

One Monday in summer 2003 Peter said that he had been walking over Westminster Bridge on Sunday and was surprised to find that he was very short of breath. ‘Had to stop in the middle of the bridge for a rest,’ he told me indignantly.

‘You’re not getting enough exercise, you lazy old sod,’ I taunted him. ‘Can’t manage to walk across a bridge without stopping? You’re getting old.’ Peter was one day younger than me.

It happened again, several times, and Peter’s GP referred him to a cardiologist who, after an exhaustive series of tests, referred him to a cardiac surgeon at the Royal Brompton Hospital. He was scared so I went with him to see the surgeon. He had, the surgeon told us, an aortic aneurism, which would, sooner rather than later, require surgery to excise. It was still small, though, and there was plenty of time. But, in the nature of things, these aneurisms tend to grow and become more dangerous until eventually there is a likelihood that they will burst. ‘When that happens,’ said the specialist, ‘there will be no time to get to a hospital. But don’t worry, that’s not going to happen any time soon.

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