CHANGES

It doesn't look good.

Just four words. Four little words. Four little words that took everything I loved and held dear and crushed it into a million pieces.

It doesn't look good.

My head was spinning as a wave of panic surged through my body. I willed myself to look calm and matter-of-fact as I stole a glance at Rick who was sitting rigid and expressionless in the chair beside me. The only hint at his reaction was that the color had completely drained from his face.

I reached out and put my hand on his knee. Rick continued to stare straight ahead at the doctor seated behind the large desk that divided us.

"As it is now late on Friday evening, we will need to wait until Monday to get the full results of the blood tests and the endoscopy," the doctor intoned.

He began shuffling paperwork on his desk. I sensed he wanted us to go. It was getting late. Most of the other departments had already closed, and staff were quickly exiting the building. Yet Rick and I didn't move. We were waiting for the punchline.

But I am sure there is nothing to worry about.

The punchline never came.

Finally, with the awkward silence enveloping us, we got to our feet and walked outside. Neither of us said a word as we stumbled to our car. As we passed the reception area, a nurse was chatting loudly with the woman seated behind the large desk. Just as we passed, the receptionist let out a hoot of laughter at her friend's joke.

How can you be laughing at a time like this? I thought. Just how?

The car park was half-full. It was a private hospital, and most of the day patients had no doubt long gone home and were looking forward to a weekend with their families. We found our car, and Rick clicked the key fob to unlock the door. I slipped into the passenger seat, my heart still thumping.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it is nothing," Rick said. He wasn't looking at me. He was staring ahead, his hands gripping the top of the steering wheel tightly. So tightly, in fact, his knuckles were almost white.

I swallowed hard. I knew I needed to say something but didn't know what. In our relationship, Rick had always been the more upbeat one — the glass-half-full type. Somehow, he'd found the positive in everything. I was the one who always took a serious approach, while Rick kept his childlike manner. If anyone ever did or said something negative to me, he'd jump right in and tell me it wasn't meant in that way.

Now it was my turn to return the compliment. Except I couldn't speak.

"I told you we should have gone on that trip around Europe before visiting the doctor," Rick said at last with a faint smile as he started the car and gunned the engine.

As we drove through the lanes in the fading light, I just kept going over and over what the doctor had said. I could still see him sitting in front of me, a short, dark-haired man with a serious expression as his brown eyes blinked behind his half-moon glasses.

It doesn 't look good.

As I replayed it over and over, I realized with a start there was something more — something that had sent my battered emotions into free fall. It wasn't just the words the doctor had said. He'd also held my gaze for a fraction of second longer than necessary. It was barely perceptible if I hadn't been looking for it, or thinking about it, but in that moment, I recalled it. My blood almost froze. His expression seemed to be saying: brace yourself.

How had this happened? Just a day before we'd been as happy and carefree as ever, and then — boom — our whole world had shattered.

I felt a pang of guilt. Rick had only gone to the doctor because I had made him. He hadn't wanted to come to England at all. He was quite happy to stay in our home in Abu Dhabi, enjoying the sunshine and catching up with a game of golf after work. The light evenings and perpetual warm weather always allowed for a quick hit of a few balls to relax.

"You go with the kids," he'd said over and over again leading up to the trip. "You know I hate England. It's always so cold and wet. It's depressing."

It had been the same every year since we'd moved to the Gulf States for Rick's job as a driller on the oil rigs. Eighteen years we'd spent out there, traveling around various areas: Doha, Qatar, Bahrain, Dubai; and, most recently, Abu Dhabi, where we had settled a couple of times. We always seemed to be drawn back to Abu Dhabi. Our kids, Ellie, now twenty, and Jack, nineteen, had grown up there. I loved our life out there but also wanted to come home each year to see friends and family.

Mind you, after weeks of arguing with Rick to make the annual trip, I'd have virtually the same conversation with everyone in the UK when we visited.

"Why would you ever leave Abu Dhabi?" they'd ask incredulously. "You're so lucky to live there!"

They were right too. Our lives out there were perfect. Nothing needed to change. We'd spend careless weekends speeding around in our boat in the calm blue waters of the Persian Gulf. Sometimes we'd hunt for dolphins, squealing with delight when we found them and they'd swim effortlessly alongside us. None of us ever lost the thrill of seeing these beautiful creatures up close. On one occasion, I encountered a heartbreaking scene. I saw two adult dolphins swimming together, and one of the adults was carrying the lifeless form of a young dolphin. The mother was in mourning, unwilling to let go of her calf, they continue to do this for days until complete exhaustion takes over and they have no other option but to let go. Luckily, I only encountered anything this tragic once. On every other occasion, we were greeted with playful dolphins, jumping in and out of the water, as if they were putting on a show just for us.

In fact, when my father, Bill, had visited, he had laughed and said that he had paid a fortunate to go dolphin spotting on previous holidays, yet had never seen a single one. Here, though, you could barely avoid them. On other days, we'd just while away the hours going nowhere in particular, gazing at the billionaire super yachts sailing self-importantly around the bay. Rick always liked to look out for the deserted islands too, perhaps dreaming of building a sumptuous retreat on one. We'd always end the day with a barbecue on the beaches, feeling the golden sand beneath our bare feet, relishing the warmth and beauty of the setting sun.

Weekdays were luxurious too. Rick's earnings were tax-free, so we wanted for nothing, in light of our financial situation Rick preferred that I didn't work. I looked after the kids, and when they were at school, I busied myself with preparing for one of our regular entertaining events or enjoying a leisurely life looking after myself and Rick when he came in from work. We had a traditional marriage, and it worked well for us both. Our social life was always busy with plenty of friends. Most of them were expats like us. Everyone loved Rick, with his warm, effervescent personality. He was always the life and soul of every party, keeping everyone laughing with a string of hilarious stories, where as I would take more of a back seat.

It was easy to see how he had done so well in life. He'd literally started at the bottom with his career on the rigs. When we'd first met in a bar in Scunthorpe, he was what was known as a roustabout, which is the person who is responsible for the basic cleaning of an oil rig — a general dog's body really. That was Rick's description anyhow. By sheer force of personality, coupled with a lot of hard graft, he worked his way up to become assistant driller, then driller, and then drilling superintendent.

I'm not sure when it was that we first realized something wasn't quite right. He just started feeling a little more tired than usual. I'd often joked that he looked a bit like Paul Hollywood of Great British Bake Off fame with his goatee beard and short salt-and-pepper hair, although Rick's eyes were brown, not blue like the TV chef's. Now, though, Rick had developed dark rings below his eyes. He was tired, and instead of being the first to say yes whenever anyone suggested a night out, he'd say he'd rather stay in. Yet, even though he was constantly tired, he was not sleeping well.

I was convinced it was because he had been working too hard. He just needed a break. Fortunately, work was slowing down for a while, so I introduced the idea of him taking a two-month sabbatical.

"It will give you some time to relax and enjoy some much-needed time with the kids," I suggested. "You can catch up with our friends, recharge your batteries over a few games of golf, and go back to work feeling refreshed."

"Is this your new tactic to persuade me to go home?" he said suspiciously. "You know my thoughts on that."

Fortunately, he seemed to be smiling, so I pressed my advantage.

"We don't have to spend the entire time in Surrey. We could — I don't know — take a driving trip around Europe. Take in some of the cities we've always talked about seeing."

Now I had him. We'd not long ago bought a new Aston Martin, and I knew he was dying to give it a long run. The prospect of being able to drive on the German Autobahn, with no speed restrictions, was too tempting to miss.

"All right." He nodded. "But the minimum possible time in the UK. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah," I said, smiling.

I couldn't wait for the trip. It wasn't very often that I got him back to the UK where we could both enjoy socializing with friends. When we first moved into our property in Surrey, the neighbors would joke that I had an imaginary marriage because Rick never came home. It was always just me and the children.

We were just a few weeks away from leaving Abu Dhabi when Rick first started complaining that something wasn't right. He'd started coughing during an evening meal and didn't seem to be able to stop. We were over in Bahrain, enjoying dinner at Rick's favorite restaurant, The Meat Co. We spent so much time there that the restaurant owners eventually had two steak knives made with our names engraved on them and kept them in the kitchen especially for us. It was ironic really, as I didn't eat meat, but all the same, the gesture was very touching.

The team at The Meat Co. was so obliging that on my birthday they said they would cook me whatever I liked, even if it was not on the menu.

"Anything you want," Hannan, our waiter, said. "The chef wants you to have whatever you wish for tonight."

And with that, he produced a bottle of champagne as a gift from the manager, and a cake followed later at the end of the meal. Everyone in the restaurant was smiling and singing. I will never forget these beautiful souls who made our Thursday evenings so special. There wasn't a lot to do in Bahrain, so this made our stay there worthwhile.

That particular night, though, the atmosphere was a little different. Aside from the constant coughing, Rick seemed uneasy and on edge. He was certainly not enjoying his food with the usual gusto.

"Food keeps getting stuck," he said apologetically.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Maybe the meat is a bit chewy?"

"I dunno," he said with a shrug. "I just can't seem to swallow properly. It's happened a couple of times now. I had a complete coughing fit when I was out with the blokes the other night."

"Maybe something just got stuck," I said.

It didn't seem like anything to be alarmed about. All the same, after seeing a worried look flit across Rick's face, I decided it might be worth checking out.

"Shall I book you in to see the docs?"

"Nah," Rick said dismissively.

He'd always hated making a fuss. He'd hated visiting doctors for as long as I could remember. His entire medical philosophy was based around the maxim of saying nothing and it'll probably just clear up itself.

"Besides, there is way too much to get done before we swan off to Europe for a couple of months," he said with an air that definitely signaled the conversation was closed.

"What about when we get to the UK then?" I suggested. "It'll only take a few minutes to check you out."

Rick mumbled something that sounded like, "If you have to," as he left the table. He really, really didn't want to talk about it.

So, I'd taken matters in my own hands and booked the appointment at Ashtead Hospital near our house in Leatherhead, Surrey. We'd bought the four-bedroom detached house a few years earlier after many years of not owning a house in the UK. With the kids now at a boarding school — Cranbrook School in Kent, which wasn't too far away — it made sense to have a permanent base here because we'd inevitably be spending more time in the UK. I'd fully expected a couple of tests, a charming lecture about taking care of yourself and perhaps a few tablets to clear up some sort of infection.

Never for one moment did I expect: It doesn't look good.

That weekend, after the shock of the hospital visit, I did my best to hide my worries from Rick and the children. As usual, we had a packed schedule of social events. We came to England so rarely that everyone was always so keen to see us. Earlier, I'd spent weeks juggling our diary to try to make sure we spent time with all our close friends. On Saturday, we were due to be at the golf club for lunch. The plan was that the male side of the friendship group would stay on for a round afterward, while the ladies would spend time at our house that afternoon.

God knows how I made it through the lunch. I kept glancing anxiously over at Rick, checking for signs of stress or distress, but he seemed perfectly calm and composed. I was a wreck, though. I barely heard anything anyone said, and even when I did, I couldn't follow the thread of the conversation. It all just felt so surreal. Why on earth were we sitting outside in the sunshine sipping rosé when it felt like my life was being snatched away from me?

It doesn 't look good.

By the time I climbed into the car for the journey back to Leatherhead, I was struggling to know where I was.

"Are you okay?" my good friend Karen asked gently. She'd just climbed into the passenger seat. "I've been chatting away, but I don't think you heard a word."

That was enough of a trigger to open the floodgates. Tears poured down my cheeks, and in a few seconds, I was sobbing uncontrollably, my breath coming in deep, gasping rasps.

"It's Rick," I managed to stammer between sobs. "The doctor says it doesn't look good. They've done all these tests. We just don't know."

Karen gave me a hug. I clung to her like a drowning woman.

When I eventually calmed down enough to talk, I told my friend what had been going on. She listened in silence, barely moving as I spoke. Her eyes were wide with concern.

"I'm sure it is nothing," she said again and again as I finished.

"We just don't know, though," I said.

"You've got to think the best," Karen said. "Even if it is something, there is loads that can be done these days. Come on, let's get you home."

Karen looked after me through the afternoon, making me cup of tea after cup of tea in that peculiarly British way, as though a warm drink could somehow take away the pain and anguish I felt. I appreciated what she was doing, but I just yearned for the weekend to end. I just wanted to know. The doctor had asked us to return first thing on Monday, but that felt like a million years away.

I'd managed to stop crying by the time Rick returned. It was impossible to pretend, though. He took one look at my blotchy face and immediately knew what was going on. The second I saw that he knew I had been crying, I started all over again.

"I am so sorry," I whispered. "I'm just so worried."

Rick took me in his arms and held me tight. For a while neither of us said anything. We just held onto each other, finding comfort in the familiar warmth and closeness of our bodies.

"Don't worry. Come on, it's nothing," he said at last, stepping back and looking into my eyes. "Let's just enjoy the weekend together and forget about it for now."

I nodded as he tenderly brushed some hair away from my eyes.

"You dragged me over here, so the least you can do is enjoy it." He smiled.

Somehow — I'll never know how — we managed to get through the rest of the weekend without mentioning the upcoming appointment again. But not mentioning it was not the same as not thinking about it. I thought about what might happen on Monday morning every second as the weekend crawled by at a snail's pace. It easily felt like the longest weekend of my life. I know it was the same for Rick, who woke up frequently during each night, obviously concerned about what was to come after the weekend.

On Monday morning, we were back in the clinical white surrounds of the doctor's office. Even as we were shown in I noticed the short, dark-haired doctor seemed very different from the last time we'd met. That previous Friday, which felt a world away now, he'd started off by asking how we were and what we felt about coming back to the British weather. This time, though, he stayed silent as we took our seats. He was holding a file of paperwork in his right hand and a pen in the other. A nurse was sitting in one corner of the room, as though ready to take notes.