Knowing that ... It makes me feel just a tiny bit less helpless.
She's still on assorted drips -- three units of blood so far today, and ceaseless saline. There's other stuff going in there too, but she's less prone to note names and strengths than I would be. She's still worried, and the team still haven't pinned down where she's losing what they're pouring in. They'll be doing the fantastic-journey thing tomorrow with a camera on a stick, and we'll know whether our favourite guess, a stomach ulcer, has anything in common with reality.
Please continue to pray, if that's your tradition. Continue with the transmission of good vibes and e-hugs and all. And thank you, all of you, for the comments herein, for the emails, for the text messages, for the supportive little snippets of instant messenger. And thank you for all your good wishes when you can't formulate them in words, too. It's all appreciated, even if I'm not very good at saying so to individual well-wishers.
And each time I put the phone down, I remember that there's something specific I wanted to say which I'd omitted because I was too busy listening, or because I'd said something else instead.
It's hard to avoid dwelling on the parallels between scarlatti's current situation and the regular episodes Anne used to have in the care of the medics. Anne used to get taken to Heatherwood Hospital, or Wexham Park Hospital, or the Royal Berkshire Hospital, and I used to grumble about the distance when I went to visit her.
"And then I saw a man with no feet." I know better now.