Stayed in last night, and is staying overnight again tonight, as he’s not responding to treatment as well as had been hoped. He’s actually quite bright and happy, but walking makes him dizzy and he’s still wheezing.


The plan was such a simple one: get the littlies out of the house for a few hours this morning so that Aidey-baby and B-Henry could have a morning to themselves without having their younger siblings climbing all over them at every opportunity. A few hours for the big two to lounge about like holidaying teenagers without a care or duty in the world. Which, you know, they are.

The moment we arrived home from our wandering, Aiden shot off to his best friend’s house. And fair enough, too: teenager, holiday, no cares or duty. Half an hour later he was back: poo, meet fan. Fan, poo.

Because Blake couldn’t stop coughing, and he couldn’t stop wheezing, and his asthma protocols meant we were going to the hospital. By 12.30, he and I were in the emergency department and he was getting his first dose of super-ventolin.

And he’s still there. He’ll be there until the morning. His Mum’s right beside him, on a fold out bed tucked into a corner of the ward. And I’m at home, having sat with him for the last couple of hours, after Lyn and I had taken shifts all afternoon to be with him. And frankly, all I want to do is put my head under my pillow and cry.

It’s been 6 years since my first wife died. For those who came in late, she died in hospital. Because of hospital. There’s more, but that’s the crux. And still, every time I walk into a hospital, a part of my heart freezes. Walking in with someone I love, being there as they are admitted, and given a bed, and then having to leave them to come home…. sheer, unmitigated terror. And, you know, I’m the Bonus Dad, and the husband, so I’m holding it all together and making little witticisms to keep the mood light (next time you see Blakey, ask him how the circumcision went….) and absorbing all the information, and counting the puffs so Blake can concentrate on just breathing nice and slow and steady….

There’s a part of me that just knows I’m not going to see him again, no matter how nonsensical and insane I know that idea to be. And I just cannot stop wanting to cry.