My husband and I did the swapover thing. I handed him a small, farty boy, and he left me at my daughter's bedside, informing me that she'd been performing miracles for the physio again, sitting in a chair and even managing to walk along the corridor and back.
I saw it for myself before too long, when the nurse said she should try another little walk. I held my girl's hand as she took slow and careful steps, wearing her funky trainers and her less-than funky hospital gown. She wasn't wobbly. My bottom lip was.
She was up again to sit in her chair to eat tonight's tea. Earlier, she'd discovered the menu's spicy halal page and had made a beeline for the beef madras. She finished every last smidgeon of sauce, then requested her first foray to the loo (although I don't think the moving effect of the madras could have been that instantaneous).
So she's done three walks today. Oh, and that was after coming off the morphine drip first thing this morning. Two days after major spinal surgery, she's taking paracetamol but not strong painkillers. She gets pale and quiet after each exertion, but she seems to be using power naps to recharge.
I know her syndrome comes with a high pain threshold, but it's not just that. She seems driven. So where's it coming from? Well, she's obsessed with not staying in hospital any longer than she did for her original operation seven years ago. So the determined little bugger is willing, persevering, and pushing herself to her limits.
I can only watch and marvel.