We awake in our new lodgings in QMC's family unit. We haven't been called in the night and that doesn't feel good. The twenty-four hours have come and gone and Tom has shown no signs of waking. A feeling of impending doom engulfs us both.
Doctors do their rounds and tones seem more hushed than usual. We are taken to a small side room by the consultant and Tom's nurse. A second CT has revealed 'infarctions' - insults to our baby's brain. He is damaged. We are told that it is uncertain what the end result will be - the doctors do not know. CTs are pictures; snapshots in time. The best proof is what Tom does and all we can do is watch and wait.
We are left on our own and break down. I hear noises that sound like animal death cries and realise its me making them.
More EEGs, more waiting, more trying to make Tom wake up through will power alone as the comment 'the longer he stays unconcious, the more worrying it is' hangs around in my head. Tom's GCS scores don't do much rising. Grandparents try and talk Tom into opening his eyes. He ignores them. Nik has a cuddle. Tom doesn't move in her arms. We are so very scared that this is as far as he can progress.
Little can reassure us. The collective strength of our families is brought to bear. The hospital chapel is visited by two godless heathens who promise all manner of things and search for hope in the faith of others.
The day wears on and somewhere, deep down, we find hope. It's simple: he has to get better.
We barely sleep.