I'll fast forward through the 'excruciating pain' and the trip across Swansea to Morriston Hospital where Husband is 'sicker than I've ever been in my life before' to getting back to bed at 3.30 am, being unable to sleep and composing blog posts in my head.
Who, I wonder, made the decision to play Pink Floyd music videos on the television in the hospital waiting room? If I'd been feeling ill before I'd have been positively suicidal after sitting there for an hour.
Maybe it was a tactical decision, a way of reducing hospital waiting lists (Yes, I know this isn't the waiting they mean when they say that): nobody who's not seriously ill will stay here out of choice. I never liked Pink Floyd when I was young; I certainly don't like them now.
Husband is feeling a bit better but washed out this morning. I remarked that it was similar to the stress-related stomach bouts I used to have in my teens and twenties.
'Oh no, it was much worse than that!'
'Of course it was, dear.'
But Husband has been worrying a lot about Younger Son and Fiancée and how they'll cope financially. I'm a romantic; I say, 'They're young, poor and in love; they'll manage.' Husband is much more pragmatic.
Right now I'm too busy worrying about Wales playing Samoa tomorrow morning, a game they have to win to maintain any realistic hope of getting through the World Cup qualifiers.