On Friday Grainne the ward manager ("Sister") had my bed wheeled from the corridor into a room, which I shared with three other women. None of us spoke a word to each other, each of us absorbed in our own private dramas. The husband visited, bringing underwear, magazines, the Irish Times. As she inserted an IV, Najimi the night nurse mentioned, smiling, that she had seen me "in town, walking". I didn't tell her that the husband and I were looking for a bar in which to have a sneaky drink. That is, until I remembered I probably shouldn't drink while on antibiotics and opted for an ice cream instead.

After I was discharged the next day, the husband drove us south on errands. (Rest, what's that?!) I had to look at an exhibition for a commissioned text due next week. The gallery was packed for opening day. The Irish art world's quirkily dressed, jocular crème de la crème swilled wine as I scribbled notes and looked at paintings with a growing sense of nausea. Descending a steep staircase on wobbly legs, I realise only a couple of hours ago I was waiting for a nurse's offering of tea and meds. How pliant I was, I think. How susceptible I am to the allure of timed meals and IV drips and meds and short visits. So easily I could have surrendered to another week, a month even, to that bed, just for a momentary cessation of my cares and concerns.

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When I arrived home, there were nice surprises. The mother-in-law had changed our bedsheets, washed our laundry, and vacuumed our room. Neighbours dropped off roses, magazines, and chocolates. Later another gift appeared outside my bedroom. Probably half the town heard I had been in hospital, thanks to my grapevine of a mother-in-law.

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