July 30th, 1969: I knew there was something wrong yesterday. I could feel it in my primitive Welsh bones. E had gone into surgery for her piles, and the first word I had was from her doctor, who made it blatantly clear that my baby child had nearly kicked it. Some doctor-idiot had allowed the ‘shot’ to leak into her blood stream and the fools were standing by with heart shots etc. in case she started to die, which they feared she was actually doing.
I’m still nightmared. What could life possibly be without her? Where would I go? What would I do? Everybody else pales by comparison. It’s no use picking up a mini-skirted chick of 18 — she wouldn’t last a week, if that.
I’d die, I suppose, a greatly accelerated death. Anyway, she’s all right. Bastards.
Richard Burton’s diary