As she felt the loss of Will's form beside her Helen shifted uncomfortably on the stiff hospital sofa, rolling her neck awkwardly as she attempted to work out a knot. To release some of the tension that plagued her whole body, caused by the gripping fear of her only daughter's unconsciousness.
In reality Helen knew that morning would come and Joan would wake up, but the anticipation of waiting for that to happen, the 'what ifs' that automatically swam around her brain were taking their toll on her. The memories of Kevin's accident only made things worse.
She couldn't help but wonder what side effects there might be to the illness, or the medication that they were flooding her daughter with while she slept. Although they already knew it was Lyme disease the doctors had taken more blood and run some more tests, just to check that there were not any other problems that could be related to the disease.
When the nurse had taken Joan's blood in a small, glass vial the doctor had taken her and Will aside to mention quite casually that the disease was incurable. That it would lie dormant in Joan's system for the rest of her life, if it didn't decide to make a reappearance.
The thought that two of her children would be classed as ill for life sadden Helen. Even if the disease never affected Joan again, it would always be there. Just in the same way that she would be looking for something under the stairs and see something of Kevin's relating to sport. That same slightly bitter taste would bubble under her tongue and Helen would wonder what she had done wrong to make the world feel the need to cause her children such pain.
It was these things that made her faith in God such a complicated matter. She wanted to believe – more than anything else – she wanted to feel like there was someone watching out for her and her family, but that was difficult when things like this slipped through. When she had to spend all night in a hospital room while her sixteen-year-old daughter suffered from night terrors.
Moving to sit on the edge of the bed – which was not clammy from Joan's fever – Helen brushed her fingers lightly through Joan's hair. Skimming the skin in a light, comforting way, trying to coax her away from the things that made her twist and writhe in her sleep.
When Joan quieted slightly, Helen moved back to the sofa, propping her head on the armrest while fighting to keep her eyes open. Failing, slowly, very slowly.
In reality Helen knew that morning would come and Joan would wake up, but the anticipation of waiting for that to happen, the 'what ifs' that automatically swam around her brain were taking their toll on her. The memories of Kevin's accident only made things worse.
She couldn't help but wonder what side effects there might be to the illness, or the medication that they were flooding her daughter with while she slept. Although they already knew it was Lyme disease the doctors had taken more blood and run some more tests, just to check that there were not any other problems that could be related to the disease.
When the nurse had taken Joan's blood in a small, glass vial the doctor had taken her and Will aside to mention quite casually that the disease was incurable. That it would lie dormant in Joan's system for the rest of her life, if it didn't decide to make a reappearance.
The thought that two of her children would be classed as ill for life sadden Helen. Even if the disease never affected Joan again, it would always be there. Just in the same way that she would be looking for something under the stairs and see something of Kevin's relating to sport. That same slightly bitter taste would bubble under her tongue and Helen would wonder what she had done wrong to make the world feel the need to cause her children such pain.
It was these things that made her faith in God such a complicated matter. She wanted to believe – more than anything else – she wanted to feel like there was someone watching out for her and her family, but that was difficult when things like this slipped through. When she had to spend all night in a hospital room while her sixteen-year-old daughter suffered from night terrors.
Moving to sit on the edge of the bed – which was not clammy from Joan's fever – Helen brushed her fingers lightly through Joan's hair. Skimming the skin in a light, comforting way, trying to coax her away from the things that made her twist and writhe in her sleep.
When Joan quieted slightly, Helen moved back to the sofa, propping her head on the armrest while fighting to keep her eyes open. Failing, slowly, very slowly.