So I go into the Intensive Care Ward to find the Old Man. And he is peaceful now. Sedated and with a breathing tube. Machines blip and beep. Tubes, and monitors. He looks smoothed out.
The problem was fluid around the heart. And they are draining it off. In the Jekyll and Hyde world of hospitals this is explained to me as a possible event after heart surgery. Yet when my path crosses that of the Consultant from Hell, the next day, he tells me that this is an extremely rare event, "one in a hundred" - but that's not much comfort to the "one in a hundred" under your arrogant gaze, Dr Consultant.
Now I feel shocked and tired.
They offer me a room for the night. With the "very poorly" stuff, I don't know what I should do. A doctor tells me I am exhausted and to go home. And I know that's what I want to do.
I leave the Old Man.
Old friend is downstairs, waiting and reading.
Gone 11pm and we leave the hospital and drive home.
We eat beans on toast.
I go to bed at 2pm.
I wake up at 5pm.
I get up.