One thing they never tell you about hospitals is that they exist outside of time. One minute in the real world is about a day in hospital land; so consequently BB and I have been living in Bay 14 for years and years. The nurses must take some kind of drug to protect themselves from the time tear that occurs in here as they all look younger, slimmer and much fresher than I do.
Day three, following BB’s hip surgery, has been like a thunderstorm with patches of sunshine. It started with a blood transfusion and ended with the death of a vein which caused a candula to collapse and BB’s arm to resemble Princess Fiona in her ogres form, with an unidentified rash and a convulsion in the middle.
But BB smiled today when some kind souls donated blood started to trickle round her system and for one short moment she giggled and my baby was back.
Then night fell and the ward sprang to life. Bay 14 is surrounded by poorly sick kids who don’t sleep, my heart breaks for them whilst my ears long to be momentarily deafened from the noise.
I long for home, I miss the bigger ones, snatched moments in the hospital playroom don’t make up for a half term without mummy.
I want to be funny, I want to make myself laugh, but when I try and write it, it merely comes out glum.
In my most tired and grumpy moments all I can picture is my happy walking daughter on Monday morning toddling around pre op trying to insert keys into every hole, door and occasionally an electrical socket, then I turn to the bed and see a sick little girl, pale, sweating and tied to the bed by a huge spica cast. Her eyes implore me to help, they ask me why this is happening and her arms stretch out to hold me…
This self indulgent maudlin must end, tonight I will afix cotton wool in my ear holes and tie a pillow round my head and welcome sleep like an adulteress welcomes a lover.
It will be better when I sleep.
I want to go home.
Bring on tomorrow.