was dying. Are you sure I didn't have a heart attack?'
'Quite sure. Has this ever happened to you before?'
'No. Never.' He rubbed at his head again and winced, obviously in some pain.
'Let me see,' she said and ran her hand gently over his scalp, feeling the bump. He flinched again.
'Ouch! Be careful woman, I might have a fractured skull.'
'Don't be such a baby. It's just a bruise, nothing major.'
He sat up carefully and rubbed the back of his neck. 'I think I'm okay now.'
'Just a minute.' She took his pulse again. It was normal, strong and regular.
'What's the prognosis, nurse?'
'You'll live.' She stood and offered her hand. He took it and slowly got to his feet, supporting himself on the desk.
'Any dizziness?' she asked.
'No.'
'That's good. You'll need to take it easy for a while. Shall I make you some tea?'
He accepted the offer. 'I think that might be a good idea.'
'Go into the kitchen while I clear up this glass, and I'll be with you in a minute,' she instructed.
She watched as, a little unsteady on his feet, he left her to her chore. When he had gone, her knees buckled and she sank to the ground. Her self-assuredness abandoned her and her hands began to shake. Overcome by a cold shudder, her hand went to cover her mouth to stifle a cry.
'What if I'd been wrong? What if it had been his heart after all? He could have died right here on the floor? Oh God! I could have killed him!' She pulled herself up short. 'Stop it, he's fine. It was just a panic attack and he's fine. If he had been really sick, you would know.'
She admonished herself for being foolish and, breathing deeply, closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten, concentrating on regaining her poise. Carefully, she picked up the pieces of glass and wrapped them in a newspaper taken from the desk, all the while ignoring the small red stain on the leg of her jeans.
It took a few moments more before she could put on a convincing mask of total serenity and join Nat in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table waiting for her. He still looked a little pale and as she passed him, she placed her hand on his shoulder as a touch of reassurance.
She slid a mug of hot tea across the table to him, receiving a mumbled, 'Thanks,' in return. He had not spoken until then, preferring to concentrate on folding and unfolding a piece of paper, folding it backwards and forwards along a crease until it began to tear, using the idle repetition to focus his mind. He put it aside and cupped his mug with both hands. Finally, with the trace of a tremor in his voice, he spoke. 'I don't mind admitting, I was really scared there, Meg. I didn't know what was happening. It came on all so suddenly; I couldn't stop it. The more I tried to fight it, the worse it got. I was so sure I was going to die.' His voice dropped to be barely audible. 'I'm not ready to die, not yet.' He picked up the piece of paper again and carefully folded it into a small, neat square. 'Can I ask...are you a spiritual person, Meg?'
'Do you mean…do I believe in God?'
'Hmm,' he nodded.
'Not as such.' She sipped her tea. She didn't know anything about his beliefs, but there was no harm in being truthful about her own. 'I believe that every natural, living thing has its own spirit,' she said. 'And some non-living things too - rocks, mountains and rivers certainly do. But if you are asking if I believe in a single, all powerful entity that dictates our lives then, no, I don't. Life is too cruel for that. I believe every man is responsible for his own actions, his own conscience and ultimately the fate of his own soul. What about you?'
He took a moment to answer. It appeared to be something he had to think about. 'I'm not sure any more, not that I ever was. I was convinced I was dying and I…I don't know…there was a second when I thought, 'What if I do die and I get wherever I'm going…and there's nothing there. What happens to me then?' It was…unsettling.' He clasped his hands together, interlacing his
'Quite sure. Has this ever happened to you before?'
'No. Never.' He rubbed at his head again and winced, obviously in some pain.
'Let me see,' she said and ran her hand gently over his scalp, feeling the bump. He flinched again.
'Ouch! Be careful woman, I might have a fractured skull.'
'Don't be such a baby. It's just a bruise, nothing major.'
He sat up carefully and rubbed the back of his neck. 'I think I'm okay now.'
'Just a minute.' She took his pulse again. It was normal, strong and regular.
'What's the prognosis, nurse?'
'You'll live.' She stood and offered her hand. He took it and slowly got to his feet, supporting himself on the desk.
'Any dizziness?' she asked.
'No.'
'That's good. You'll need to take it easy for a while. Shall I make you some tea?'
He accepted the offer. 'I think that might be a good idea.'
'Go into the kitchen while I clear up this glass, and I'll be with you in a minute,' she instructed.
She watched as, a little unsteady on his feet, he left her to her chore. When he had gone, her knees buckled and she sank to the ground. Her self-assuredness abandoned her and her hands began to shake. Overcome by a cold shudder, her hand went to cover her mouth to stifle a cry.
'What if I'd been wrong? What if it had been his heart after all? He could have died right here on the floor? Oh God! I could have killed him!' She pulled herself up short. 'Stop it, he's fine. It was just a panic attack and he's fine. If he had been really sick, you would know.'
She admonished herself for being foolish and, breathing deeply, closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten, concentrating on regaining her poise. Carefully, she picked up the pieces of glass and wrapped them in a newspaper taken from the desk, all the while ignoring the small red stain on the leg of her jeans.
It took a few moments more before she could put on a convincing mask of total serenity and join Nat in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table waiting for her. He still looked a little pale and as she passed him, she placed her hand on his shoulder as a touch of reassurance.
She slid a mug of hot tea across the table to him, receiving a mumbled, 'Thanks,' in return. He had not spoken until then, preferring to concentrate on folding and unfolding a piece of paper, folding it backwards and forwards along a crease until it began to tear, using the idle repetition to focus his mind. He put it aside and cupped his mug with both hands. Finally, with the trace of a tremor in his voice, he spoke. 'I don't mind admitting, I was really scared there, Meg. I didn't know what was happening. It came on all so suddenly; I couldn't stop it. The more I tried to fight it, the worse it got. I was so sure I was going to die.' His voice dropped to be barely audible. 'I'm not ready to die, not yet.' He picked up the piece of paper again and carefully folded it into a small, neat square. 'Can I ask...are you a spiritual person, Meg?'
'Do you mean…do I believe in God?'
'Hmm,' he nodded.
'Not as such.' She sipped her tea. She didn't know anything about his beliefs, but there was no harm in being truthful about her own. 'I believe that every natural, living thing has its own spirit,' she said. 'And some non-living things too - rocks, mountains and rivers certainly do. But if you are asking if I believe in a single, all powerful entity that dictates our lives then, no, I don't. Life is too cruel for that. I believe every man is responsible for his own actions, his own conscience and ultimately the fate of his own soul. What about you?'
He took a moment to answer. It appeared to be something he had to think about. 'I'm not sure any more, not that I ever was. I was convinced I was dying and I…I don't know…there was a second when I thought, 'What if I do die and I get wherever I'm going…and there's nothing there. What happens to me then?' It was…unsettling.' He clasped his hands together, interlacing his
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