We lost a baby on Monday. The parents were younger than me. I went home and could not explain to my husband why I was fine, because I was not fine, I was just finished.
My mother no longer recognises me on most days. On Sunday she did, for about four minutes, and asked whether I had eaten. I have been living on those four minutes all week.
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My daughter Fiona has her surgery on Thursday. They have moved it twice and each time I have had to start being brave again from the beginning. I am not frightened of the operation. I am frightened of the waiting room. Please pray for the surgeon's hands and for my own heart to be quiet.
Fiona came through. Six hours, and they found less than they feared. I want to say something about the waiting room: I was not quiet in it. I was a wreck. But I was not alone in it, and that turned out to be the thing I had actually been asking for without knowing it. Fourteen people prayed on this. Ruth, you were right about the two nights before. Lydia, you set an alarm for a stranger.
My mother finished her treatment on Friday. I have been so focused on paying for it that I have not let myself be glad about it.