Postscript
She was scheduled to come out of surgery early this evening. We took a chance and jumped in the car – making the hour-long trek to the hospital. After parking the car and finding our way to the ward we thought she might arrive at, my other half’s phone rang.
I watched from a few feet away – trying to read her facial expressions. Good news? Bad news? Good news. Definitely good news.
I had called the hospital late the night before, and spoke to the sister in charge of the ward (do they still have sisters?). I very quickly handed the phone over to my other half, who was prompting me with questions. Quite why I was involved was anybody’s guess. There’s something about mothers, daughters, and healthcare staff – a higher data transmission rate kicks in once the men are removed from the communication loop.
Anyway.
Miss 16 is out of the woods. Operation is complete. Her leg is now re-assembled, aided somewhat by the precursor of hardware that will one day be built by Cyberdyne Systems. Let’s hope she doesn’t start talking about finding John Connor any time soon.
A few minutes after arriving in the correct place in the hospital my other half went off in search of the ward while I settled in for potentially several hours in a reception area, adjacent to a cafe that had just shut. While updating family on the situation, the phone started ringing.
“Hello. She’s here. She’s ok. She’s asking if I’ll stay.”
A very short conversation ensued, subtitled “don’t mind how you get home”. Five minutes later I stood on the pavement outside the hospital, having clicked the “home” icon within the Uber app. Moments later (literally moments), a swish black car swept to a stop on the other side of the road. I cracked the door open and a smartly dressed driver told me my name.
Isn’t the internet amazing.
An hour later I was home, having spent the journey home making small talk with the driver, listening to England play football on the radio, and updating family on further developments. The elder daughters met me mid-stairs and absorbed the news. Rather than repeat myself endlessly I pressed a “call back” button on my phone, and handed the handset to Miss 21.
It’s been a long day. A long day of not knowing.
The not knowing has now turned towards knowing, and although the future is perhaps still a little uncertain, it’s at least looking like a happy future.
While sitting in the taxi on the way home I began working through “what we would have done if” in my head – even though the darkest timeline hadn’t happened. I caught myself doing it, and wondered if others do the same.
It’s now a little after midnight, and my other half is curled up in a chair alongside a hospital bed quite some distance from home while the rest of our family sleeps soundly here. I’ve just downed a glass of wine – mostly to take the edge off the day. I’m tempted to get on with work tomorrow, for no other reason than to distract myself from the “what ifs”.
We’re already wondering about recovery, and re-arranging a room or two. Maybe we should stop thinking for the moment and just be thankful for skill and dedication of the army of NHS paramedics, nurses, doctors, surgeons, and consultants that burst from stage left when we needed them most.