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Hi Subscriber First Name Saturday lunchtime. "Is he awake and with you?" the 111 lady asked. "Err" I called his name. Nothing I slapped him in the face a few times. Still nothing. I felt sick. I couldn't breathe. WTF. Still nothing. So Frankie and I spent the weekend in hospital. Thankfully, the drugs and Oxygen kicked in pretty quickly and, after 24 hours he was running around again. He dodged pneumonia and got off with a couple of infections. But I, on the other hand, was shattered. Not only had I spent the night sleeping in a chair with a toddler whose monitors alarmed and beeped all night long but I had to face so many triggers. I had to walk past rooms where I've received terrible news. Where I've lost babies. Where I've recovered. Where I've visited tiny, desperate, fragile babies. There were things about being in a ward Parents' Room that I had completely forgotten. On Sunday morning, James told me that Rafa woke in a pool of his own vomit. I felt like I was right back at square one of "never enough mummy to go around". I couldn't be at home and the hospital. I had to choose which ill child to prioritise. Thankfully we were all reunited by bedtime. But it was a mum guilt trigger. So sorry this Mama Mag is a day late.
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