Curve

My girl's struggle with pneumonia continues slowly. My struggle to present my best bright and breezy game-face to her also continues apace.

Yesterday there was talk of ITU and intubation. There's been less talk of it today, and my heart rate has gone down accordingly.

Antiobiotics have been switched. The ward has echoed to the sound of a succession of sinewy female physios drumming out a rhythm on my daughter's side and back with resounding cupped hand pats and manipulations. My girl has been blowing through a straw to make bubbles in a jug of soapy water. Her observations are being taken frequently and assessed carefully.

Despite the stubborn infection not wanting to shift, she's been more like herself  today. Typical trademark random conversations have occurred, when she previously wasn't saying much at all. The one that amused the nurses the most was a sudden worry on my daughter's part that Michael Jackson's doctor might be charge of measuring out her medicine (what the actual fuck?). Also, out of the blue, she told one doctor that "the matron was horrible to children and beat them". He seemed somewhat relieved to hear my quick explanation that my girl was talking about a character in Hetty Feather, a Jacqueline Wilson novel about a Victorian foundling hospital which I'd been reading to her at her bedside. Not referring the sister in charge of Ward 5 at Milton Keynes Hospital, who seems very nice.

Friends have helped keep little brother entertained with playmates. My husband has helped with shuttle runs, provisions, and general superhuman steadfastyness. Yes, that is now a word, I just wrote it.

Steadfastyman* and I are doing a tag-team switcheroo tomorrow. (*Autocorrect turned this into Steadfarty man and I was tempted to leave it, as it's actually very accurate). I need my bed for a night. I need the next couple of days to continue the tiny upward curve they've taken today. And I definitely need them be curvier, and more upward.