Mornings are the worst. Waking up hoping for news, then getting to the ward and finding our little boy looking as sick as when we left him.
Further conversations with consultants don't help. They are all saying the same thing if you deconstruct it but it doesn't always appear that way on the recipient's end. An MRI has been done and confirms the CT - the brain parts that have been 'insulted' are listed. The list is too long. The bacteria have been making whoopee in my boys middle brain.
But the proof remains in what Tom does and he starts a pattern that we see every day. The mornings are times of anxiety when despair gets a foothold. Various tests then start and visitors arrive bringing with them fresh doses of optimism. As the day wears on the optimism seeps into our bones and, by evening, we can see the progress and the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.
The senior paediatric neurologist sees us at 9pm by which time Tom's eyes have crept open by a millimetre or two and he pulls grimaces when moved. The neurologist makes positive noises and we go to bed with the now ritualistic bottle of wine as our own anaesthetic and hope for great things.
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