That must be some kind of record to when I jumped from rescuer to persecutor in 0.9 seconds.

The husband had been to A&E the day before (while I was away) because he felt that he couldn’t breathe: his emphysema was particularly bad. However, he cannot stand hospitals and his anxiety goes through the roof, so he didn’t stay to get any treatment.

This morning he asked to come over because he was worried about his breathing difficulties. After I did a few chores, I picked him up and brought him home. We brought his medications and a dressing gown in case he decided that he needed to go to A&E again.

He seemed to calm while he was fussing the dog, I did a couple extra jobs, and then I had a nap on the sofa: I’d done some exercise already this morning, which can take it out of me following my heart attack several months ago.

When I woke, I could see that he was in a bad way, so I said “I think you need to go to A&E”. He said exactly the same thing, so I quickly fed and walked the dog, then I took him.

I didn’t know what the drop off arrangements were for A&E, so I parked where I knew I could park and then went looking for a wheelchair.

I had a bit of a meltdown when I got to the entrance only to find that all the chairs were padlocked up.

Fuckfuckfuckityfuck!

Some kind worker, who was leaving for the day directed me to the emergency entrance, but when I got there no chairs were to be found!

Then I had a frantic and breathless call from him “I can’t breathe”.

I told the person on reception, who said to bring him round to the door.

So I paid for parking, returned to the car, started it up and drove to the door. I had another mini-meltdown at the queue for the exit.

At the entrance to A&E, I told my husband that he might need to walk to the reception.

He said “I might as well have called an ambulance”.

I exploded: “you’ve had all fucking afternoon to decide to come here!”

I immediately regretted it and apologised.

“That’s it,” he said, “take me home”.

I didn’t. Instead I went back into the emergency room and fetched a nurse, who got a wheelchair and took him in.

I parked the car again and walked to reception. I didn’t ask the reception where they’d taken him: I needed time to reset.

The noise of machinery and humanity is overwhelming in such places. I tried to lose myself in my phone, but the battery was getting low. Fingers in ears and thumbs on eyes in an attempt to shut out the clamour.

Funiculus, my Dom, messaged me to try and calm me. I appreciated the contact.

After ninety minutes, I asked where he was. Somebody phoned and checked that he was OK to see me (after all, we are divorcing , and even if we were not he still has rights to refuse me access). He wanted me in there, so I was taken through.

He was ashen and struggling for breath. Looking at the machines I could see that he really was struggling. He couldn’t talk.

I stayed with him a couple of hours, finally getting home around 10pm. I was only calm enough to sleep by midnight.

The day at work has been exhausting!

On the one hand, I cannot deal with the drama any more: years upon years of one thing after another has taken its toll on my physical and mental health. I no longer have any reserves left.

I am fully depleted.