The air is warm on my skin and my eyes open slowly to the familiar sounds of the house,
the sun streaming through my open window.
I can hear birds and the slow whir of the ceiling fan.
It’s glorious.
Beside me there is a small boy.
He snuggles in closely and I watch as his chest rises slowly and drops again in relaxed sleep.
My head doesn’t hurt and my neck feels better than it has in days
and I can see properly out of my right eye again.
‘High alert’ stress has never sat well with me.
I am thankful for a night at home and a husband who is happy to do hospital duty.
I know I have just a few hours to soak in the other children,
do the washing, cook dinner and organise things to run smoothly before I have to go back.
A small portion of time where I am nothing but a mother.
The hospital is everything that home is not.
A portal,
a vortex,
that is so unlike real life.
There is no colour or comfort
there are no wide open spaces,
just long hallways that feed people into stomach - like wards
where you are eaten up by the system.
It sucks you in through the entry doors and once inside everything closes in on you.
The sounds of the hospital are so different.
They never rest
even at 2am.
Intense.
Alarming.
Hollow.
Noise to sharpen your worry.
It’s lovely on the outside
but there is a small girl who is missing and a husband to relieve.
In six hours I will step in through the portal.
The vibrance of the outside,
the sunshine,
a memory
and I will walk the corridors like a ghost.
