Waiting in the corner of a hospital room

Hospital Chair

I’m sitting in the corner of a hospital room, writing on my phone. I’ve slept for 2 hours out of the last 48 and there is a way to go yet. I can hear the muffled sound of nuggets‘ heartbeat coming from the machine my wife is tied to and birds singing outside to greet the sun as it rises again.

In these moments I have felt more vulnerable, more helpless and more lonely than I have ever known before. I’m bombarded by extremes of emotion I have no idea how anyone could prepare for, as we trundle forwards on this unstoppable, unrelenting journey which there is no going back on now.

Apart from being exhausted and drained, everyone is doing fine so far. Sure, it hasn’t been quite how we imagined it, but the events of the last few hours and days haven’t even come close to dangerous. For that, I am incredibly grateful.

I’ll say it now, because after a good kip I might be too proud to admit it. I am on the edge. Close to bursting into tears. Close to cracking my outward face of calm. My imagination is running wild as I look my wife in the eyes and tell her it’s ok. I tell her that I have got her, forever. Inside I’m desperately hoping that I really can hold her forever.

Whilst I’ve always believed that family, people and love are the most important things in the world, I’ve never known it like this before. My words cannot do this feeling justice, but if you already know what I mean then you really do.

All this is before I’ve even met the little one. He or she (I am so excited to find out) is still camping out inside. I can only imagine what they will be like. Even then, I know that the pictures and sounds my imagination conjures up will fall so far short of reality.

Life is amazing, with all of its up and downs. I have never been so convinced. I am so excited to live out the next few hours of mine.

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