I always swap Monday morning emails with my best mate L, catching up with her weekend down in Auckland and my weekend up here in small town Northland and the latest goings on in our lives.

Last Monday, after filling her in on the excitement of Niece G’s hoedown, and how I’d been chatting to our mutual friend Liss on Facebook about how her son Sean had been mugged for his mobile phone, I hit send, only to have her reply “Have to talk. Will call you later.”

Instantly suspicious, I emailed her back. What was up? What’s going on?

She insisted it was nothing, but what time would I be home?

That was it, I had to know, and replied that I was really worried now, please tell me what had happened otherwise I’d worry all day.

It was S, her husband (the 40th birthday boy whose party we attended last month). He’d collapsed Sunday morning and was unconscious for at least ten seconds, shaking and foaming from the mouth. He can’t remember a thing about it. The doctor didn’t know what was wrong. He has to go for a CT scan and see a neurologist as soon as possible.

“Fi, I can’t go to Melbourne till I know what’s wrong. If you want to go, that’s cool, but maybe we could go later, when we find out what’s wrong and if Steve’s ok? I told him he needs to slow down and look after himself, I just wish he would listen!”

If it would of been possible to transport myself 120kms south in a split second I would of, picturing her sitting at her desk, with a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes.

But all I could do was reply forget about Melbourne, that I would ring her later and she could tell me all about it, and type hugs. 

{OOOO}