Caution advised - potentially triggering references to Eating Disorders in children.

xxx

Cal's arms are still around me as Anna enters the room a moment later with a cup of coffee in each hand. With one last squeeze, he lets me go and then departs leaving Anna and I alone. She comes to sit beside me, handing me the much needed coffee and then asking about Grace.

Once again I find myself shielding her from the truth, telling her 'it's not so bad' and that we just need to get to the bottom of the problem. I don't know if she believes me or just pretends she does because she thinks it's what I need to keep telling myself, but either way, the conversation moves on.

She clears her throat awkwardly, trepidation apparent on her face.

"Connie?" she asks, "Do you remember asking at my interview what I'd do if I had a problem with the way you were raising Grace?"

I did indeed remember. Anna's had been my 5th interview of the day. The first four were interchangeable Norland Nannies, all smart uniforms, blonde bobs and winning smiles. Their answers to the question that Anna had just recalled were diplomatic and completely party line; mother knows best and they'd continue to act accordingly.

Then there was Anna. Bright red hair, Aussie Rules football jersey, a rueful grin and...

"I'd tell you so. Then we'd have a row about it, and then we'd decide who was right."

She got the job on the spot. Strength of character is a very important thing, and I wanted someone who would work with me to raise Grace, rather than working for me and tutting in a corner as mistakes got made. All the same, I wasn't sure where today's conversation was headed, although I was about to find out.

"So," she continues, "I promised then to always be honest with you, if I felt it was in your best interest. So, please don't take this the wrong way but," her last few words come out in a rush but it doesn't take much to decipher them, "should you really be canoodling with McSteamy?"

"We were not canoodling." My denial comes out more sharply than I'd intend it to, largely because I've been feeling unsettled enough by the exchange even before Anna mentions it. That level of intimacy, the sensation of being held, the kisses in my hair, it all seemed a step too far. Not that I'm about to admit it.

Anna sighs, "I'm not having a go, and I'm sure he was just being a," she draws quotation marks in the air, "supportive colleague – but you've told me about him, about your," she searches for the right word, "dynamic. You flirt, you play games, but ultimately you keep him in his place." She reaches out and touches my hand, "When all this is over, are you still going to be able to do that if you crumble on him now?"

I say nothing in response, but I know I don't need to. Anna knows that if I'm not willing to argue with her, then it means she's right. For a 26 year old, she is alarmingly astute and seems to have got to the heart of the matter with very little effort at all.

Feeling awkward at this revelation, and satisfied that Grace will be out of it for a little while yet I excuse myself from the room and head outside to get some air; something of a contradiction in terms given the fact that my journey leads me to a nearby off licence and 20 Silk Cut. It's appalling behaviour, one the clinician in me hugely disapproves of but throughout my life during times of stress and apprehension it's a habit I have repeatedly gone back to, then given up again as the waters cleared. This time will be no different.

I light one, and sit on the wall outside the hospital, inhaling deeply. I want it to take me away from it all, but the endoscopy images refuse to leave me, imprinted on my brain stirring up my concern all over again. It's the unknown that makes them so incredibly terrifying; you can't fix what you don't understand, and sitting there alone, cigarette in hand, I find myself facing the very real prospect of losing the most precious person in my world.

Not wanting to leave her for too long I reject the notion of a second cigarette and head back inside. On my way back in I pass Cal and Ethan who are deep in conversation, Grace's endoscopy on an iPad between them. There seems to be a debate going on and although I'd vowed not to intervene I can't help myself, not whilst they're holding my daughter's life in their hands.

"I thought I told you two to work together." Once again I find myself coming across more sharply than I'd intended, and Ethan typically reacts with a kicked puppy expression. Cal however is quicker to set me straight.

"Connie, we are. And Ethan has a pretty good theory, I'm just struggling to see how it can be the case."

I instantly jump at his mention of a theory, willing to grasp at any straw offered to me if it gives me any hope of Grace getting better. "What has he found?"

The two exchange awkward glances, then both open their mouth to speak; Ethan getting there first, "Mallory Weiss Syndrome"

I think it through. A severe oesophageal tear could explain so much, but yet, it doesn't make any sense, not in context, not with a child so young, a fact that Cal is quick to concur with.

"See what I mean? It just makes no sense, especially given how severe it is. She's seven. We're not dealing with an alcoholic or someone with a long term ED are we?"

I open my mouth to agree but my brain beats me to it and then promptly begins to spin. Cal must see this, because he grabs at my arm to steady me, before lowering me down into a nearby seat, and crouching down beside me,

"What are you thinking?"

I say nothing, finding the prospect too horrific to want to verbalise it. I think of my little girl, so young, so innocent, curled up on the trolley in resus, with her Woody doll tucked under her arm, and I don't want to believe what I'm thinking, but yet...

Her condition. Ethan's diagnosis. And other things, just falling into place.

Slowly I get to my feet and walk unsteadily into resus, heading straight to Grace's side. My distress must show on my face because Anna asks me what's wrong, but I ignore her, my eyes firmly on my daughter. I reach out and lift her left hand, inspecting the tiny scabs on her fingers. So innocuous, they could be anything, but yet now I know they're not.

"She said she fell. In the playground." I utter the words to myself but Calhas appeared behind me and responds to them, his shock more than apparent in his voice,

"You think she's bulimic?"

"I know she is." I round on Anna furiously, "How the hell didn't you spot this? How does a seven year old develop an eating disorder right in frontof you and it completely pass you by?" I know I'm not being fair, but the realisation that my daughter isn't just physically ill but mentally makes me want to lash out at anyone and Anna just happens to be conveniently placed in front of me, "You're meant to be a professional. You've got qualifications. My God Anna... She's been slowly killing herself and you were fucking oblivious."

Cal lays a calming hand on my shoulder, and I take that as an indicator I've gone too far, but before I can say anything further Anna is on her feet and away, letting out a sob as she does so.

With her gone, an awkward silence falls over the room as Cal just looks at me, his eyes raised asking me a silent question which is fairly easy to predict.

"You want to know if I think that was necessary?" I ask him, and he slowly nods, "I do." He murmurs cautiously, like he's expecting to be the next one in line for a tongue lashing, "Because I don't think it was, and I think you're going to regret it later even if you don't right now."

He's right of course, I already feel terrible and know that I owe Anna an apology but at that second I can't face chasing after her. Instead I sink down onto the seat beside Grace's bed and fight to control my emotions, knowing that if I start crying I'll never stop.

Cal sits beside me, and reaches for my hand. I shouldn't let him take it but neither do I have the energy to stop him. He squeezes it and smiles at me, "She seems like a good kid. She'll understand. What you've discovered, it's a lot to take onboard."

I look at my daughter, and my determination not to cry takes a serious knock. I swallow hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. "How does a seven year old develop bulimia?" I think back to being that age; I remember playing with dolls, cracking multiplication. I don't remember sticking my fingers down my throat. I turn to look at Cal, "Do you think this is my fault?"

"No more than it is Anna's." He says gently, "Not that you'll believe that now you've moved on from her to yourself. But," he runs his thumb soothingly across my hand, clearly trying to calm me, "this isn't the time for apportioning blame, or for tears and recriminations. You just need to be strong for Grace and concentrate on getting her well again."

"Getting her well…" I laugh slightly, not even sure that I can compute what those world means in this context. The Mallory Weiss tear, the physician in me knows about, knows how to deal with, but my daughter's psychological state is a whole different matter that I can't even begin to understand.

So, I stick to what I know.

"Do you think she'll need surgical intervention?"

Cal shrugs, "Not sure. I'll talk to Zoe. Hopefully the damage will heal itself. Either way though, she'll be OK. She'll get through this. You both will."

Again, I laugh, thinking of the challenges that face us once the physical symptoms have been dealt with, "I wish had your confidence, Cal, I really do."