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The third of September

It’s been a year.  A year and a day ago, I took my baby, less than two weeks shy of his second birthday, to the emergency department at Dunedin Hospital. Two days of tests. X-rays. Needles. No sleep. Constantly holding, shushing, murmuring reassurances. I am astonished at how much of it I can remember with absolute clarity.Praying, with increasing desperation, that he would start to get better. And even in that prayer having this thought: If he doesn’t get better today, it just means that we haven’t found what’s wrong. Pleading, in my mind. This little boy has always taught us that he knows what he needs. What will help. The only, only time he slept at the hospital, was in my arms. As soon as I put him down he would wake up again, despite his utter exhaustion and pain. Afternoon. A nasogastric tube, increasing numbers of paediatricians coming to observe, another scan. We all had to don gloves and gowns in case he was contagious. We arrived at the scan room and the radiologist asked me…

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