|Photo depicts thumbs-up afternoon calm after morning storms...|
It wasn't the pain my daughter felt from Friday's major spinal operation, because she's handling that like a little Rambo. She could so stitch up her own mortar wound and bomb the shit out of some racial stereotypes, no problem. Today, for example, 72 hours after being sliced open and de-scaffolded, she's sat in a chair for breakfast, lunch and tea; walked to the play table to play board games with her dad; pottered along to the toilet three times; and had a sit-down shower and hair wash.
No, today's hot potato was an anxiety/stubborness issue. To be more specific, a Prader-Willi Digging Her Heels In And Not Accepting That Something Stuck In Her Head Like A Lump Of Granite Isn't Necessarily Correct problem. Otherwise known as a Fecking Fixed Idea.
It had been bubbling under since her admission. She was understandably very keen to ascertain when exactly she'd be going home. A succession of nurses and doctors have revised their answers as her recovery has progressed. But the general consensus of 'Probably Tuesday or Wednesday' somehow got mis-translated in my daughter's head to 'Wednesday', then to 'Definitely Wednesday'.
And now, of course, it's looking like it's going to be tomorrow. A day before what she's decided is the right day.
So I spent the morning mopping up tears and trying to explain that she really shouldn't feel bad about going home from hospital earlier than expected. My explaining and cajoling had bugger all effect, and just to twist the knife, I was brutally informed that hospital food was nicer than my cooking.
However, thankfully, three and a half hours of tidal upset later, she suddenly, inexplicably decided to shake it off. The immovable thought became movable.
Tuesday or Wednesday is now acceptable.
Fuck. What if it's Thursday?
Song is The Attack - We Don't Know