“I suddenly started getting child-going-into-hospital feeling”

MONDAY, 6.40pm, day two of my daughter’s hospital admission.

I’m sitting by the window in her room; while worries dart about silently in my head like snipers with rifles. My husband passes me my phone; a friend has just texted:

‘If u can u should write a diary to give us an idea what u have been going through.’

I look around the room; the A-team — eldest son, husband, sisters and old friend Vanessa — are packed around my daughter’s bed, watching Orange is the New Black.

I’ve never written a diary before. But writing one might see off the sniper-fire, at least for a while — so I reach under my chair for my laptop.

Here goes: Wednesday, London, three days before admission.

Dear Diary, today my sister took me to a Turkish restaurant in Highbury. I had to work hard to get past the bad lighting but much harder to get past the bowl of lambs’ testicles, which I saw under a glass counter on the way in.

Half way through the meal, I suddenly started getting that child-going-into-hospital feeling; the holding-your-heart-out-over-a-swimming-pool-of-crocodiles one. My sister could tell. So I said “Don’t be nice to me” through a mouthful of halloumi.

She said, “Oh shut up or I’ll make you eat those lamb bollocks.” Then she punched my arm. I was fine after that.

Thursday.

Dear Diary, today I met the outreach nurse. I told her not to be nice to me too, but she can’t be as rude to me as my sister and besides, in the 15 years I’ve known her, she’s only ever proved the perfect combination of profound empathy and sound common sense.

So I wore waterproof mascara and left off the liquid eyeliner. Glad I did. Useful, informative meeting. Glad about that.

Friday.

Dear Diary, Vanessa gave me something to help me sleep. “Night Nurse,” she explained, “sold over the counter but god knows how — it’s like being hit over the head with a hammer.” This afternoon, I got lost in Shoreditch and what with the delays between Old Street at Drayton Park on the way back, by the time I got back to my sister’s flat, I was so exhausted there wasn’t a thought left in my head. Won’t need Night Nurse.

Saturday.

Dear Diary, my husband, eldest son and daughter flew in from Ireland. Vanessa and I picked them up from the station. After 30 years, I still can’t believe her driving. Husband, eldest son and daughter can’t either. Or her language — though she still sounds posh, even when she’s screaming, “OH PISS OFF. CAN’T YOU BLOODY INDICATE?”

Took Night Nurse; admission is tomorrow and snipers with rifles f***ing everywhere.

Sunday.

Dear Diary, we were admitted to hospital this evening at 6pm. Vanessa and my son tried to sort out the Wi-fi connections on laptops. Whenever I tried to help, Vanessa — who gave me a five-day crash course in computers six years ago — kept giving me a furious-teacher-to-past-pupil look which said, “And to think, once upon a time, I hoped she might spread her wings and fly.”

I stayed overnight with my daughter on the put-you up bed. We couldn’t work out how to turn off the lights, so I went to the nurse’s station to ask with my face covered in Elizabeth Arden 8 hour grease. They really should come up with a cream version.

Snipers deadly.

Monday.

Dear Diary, went down in the lift for first scan. My husband found an empty hospital trolley, lay on it on his stomach and played “Bet I can get as far as the lifts on this without putting my feet on the floor.” We watched him paddle it like a surfboard, pushing himself from wall to wall down the corridor. He didn’t make it to the lifts but it gave us something to look at; the waiting room walls were as bare as despair.

Big day tomorrow... and as for Wednesday... don’t think I’ll have time to keep a diary after tonight. So I’ll sign off; the A team are eating a homemade couscous salad, of which Vanessa is rightly proud. They’ll all be here till 10.

What a team, Diary, you’ve no idea. Don’t know how anyone does hospital without one.