The Bitch is Back.

In April this year, when Michael nearly died, I began referring to his pneumonia as The Bitch. She was a lurking, sneaky, vicious bug that almost consumed him. She successfully hid herself well enough to fool Michael's specialist, who discharged him after twenty four hours on IV antibiotics. First mistake. A short sojourn in a mediocre private hospital with an arrogant Grand Pooh Bah of a specialist was the second mistake. But the piece de resistence, the ultimate third mistake was in convincing me that the pneumonia was the chief culprit, the queen of chaos and when she was defeated, all would be well.

I have learnt that the hard way. The real enemy, the destroyer, the mistress, the significant other in Michael's life is his addiction. The cigarette has waited for him to falter, to stumble, to forget. She is Shiva, she is The Bitch.

And she has returned. Such is her cunning, she has convinced Michael that she is his friend, lover, supporter and all around good time girl. She waited until we cut down Michael's anxiety medication because of the drug's side effects. She waited until his anxiety was heightened. She waited as he searched for that extra something to help dampen his emotion.

Innocently, she appeared as his ally. Michael started pinching the odd cigarette from Gary, his partner in crime in the great Renovation of our Shops. Then, furtively, secretly, he purchased a packet of cigarettes. Now she had him again. And the worst, Michael was lying to me about the smell. He repeatedly convinced me that it was Other People's Smoke.

I was completely devastated by the Truth. That she was back. That he had surrendered to her charms. That he had buried the horror of his illness and all that had led up to his hospitalisation. I was furious, inconsolable and disbeliving. I ranted and raved and wept and wailed. Michael was embarrassed, distressed, furtive. And The Bitch was triumphant. She thought she had us both.

And then there were Michael's friends. Who had aided and abetted him in getting into bed with The Bitch. I am beyond anger at them. Michael, in the grip of the enemy, has justified their actions, insisting they did try to talk him out of lighting up. Well, they didn't try hard enough. And if they'd called me, that would have stopped Michael in his tracks, at least for a short time. And Michael pleaded with me that they'd supported him, been his "mates".

What utter bullshit. After all the work of various Men's groups, introducing the alien concept of looking out for your friends, they were too gutless to confront the uncomfortable reality. Knowing my feelings and consorting with The Bitch along with Michael. How dare they betray him in the name of mateship.

The last few days have been Hell. I have floundered in despair and anger. I was unsure of myself and my ability to go into battle once more. Yesterday, I saw him holding a cigarette for the first time in almost six months. For a fleeting second, I didn't recognise him, such was my shock.

But, gradually, I have formulated my plan of counter attack. I have told Michael he has no choice about the matter. He doesn't have the objectivity to fight The Bitch alone. She continues to whisper in his ear, flattering him, placating him, stroking his vulnerable ego and providing him with a misguided alternative to life.

Well, she's met her match. I will fight the Bitch with every weapon in my arsenal. I'm taking charge of the hated cigarettes. I am undecided what to do with them as yet. The patches will be resurrected and his medication increased to give him more ammunition to resist her onslaught. Good food will be his to ingest instead of The Bitch's instrument of death.

And love. I will love him with every fibre of my being. That is her one weakness. The Bitch controls, she consumes, she connives. But she is incapable of love. And that's how I'll get her, once and for all.

The love of my life, Michael - my reason for battling The Bitch.