On Monday 5th November 2018 my son was in hospital and had undergone planned surgery. Five days later he was so unwell that my daughter-in-law stayed with him overnight. Had it not been for her insistence that a doctor be called at 3am in the morning (despite the nurse who irritatedly said to her, “what now?”) he would not still be with us. She saved his life.
Here is a link to the post I wrote when he was, at last, coming home:
A year on, although he will live with the consequences of a second surgery for the rest of his life, he is very much stronger and is doing well. I have to remind myself of the positives but there are times (like this week) when the anger and the memory of that time often haunts me, particularly during those wide-awake hours in the night.