Waking up in a hospital shouldn't feel so normal. And it shouldn't feel reassuring, but it does. This past month has taken so much out of me, Hubby, and Babygirl that it almost can't be described.
Babygirl awoke looking fairly well, headache mild, alert and conversational. She ordered breakfast and ate some of it (which may have been an error - she has procedures this afternoon and was supposed to be restricted to clear liquids), the first meal since soup and sandwiches Wednesday evening (most of which ended up on my sister-in-law's floor anyway).
Within an hour the headache was back full force. The nurse got to see the transformation of Babygirl from happy teen to a child huddled under blankets to escape the light. By the time the resident arrived, it was as if the Babygirl I love and miss so much had simply disappeared. It gives me hope when she reappears. It makes me weep when she leaves. It's a roller coaster with 360 degree loops and an unstable track.
I don't know what to pray for. I don't want them to find anything more wrong with her. Or maybe I do - something that makes everybody say, "Oh, of COURSE! And all we have to do to fix this is (pick any simple safe procedure or medication) and she'll be ALL better!"
They took three urine specimens this morning to look for viruses I've never heard of. They did the same sort of thing when they drew her blood. They'll do more zebra and hippo hunting when they do her spinal tap.
Fundamentally speaking, I'm a control freak. I freely admit it, and my family will happily (perhaps even gleefully) give you examples to support this. There is nothing here I can control. Nothing to hang onto, no strings to pull. For all of that, I'm glad we are here. But this coaster has no safety features at ALL.