Pardon my French, but that’s how it feels now. Abbe has been scared to death, angry and inconsolable. You can tell he’s a few years older than when he went through this last time. He has a will of his own. A very strong one.
Now I’m completely worn out. Sitting, knackered, in a sofa, waiting for someone from the anaesthetic staff to come and talk to us. And the surgeon. The one who is about to fix Abbe’s heart.
If I have enough energy, I’ll write a bit more tonight. If not, I’ll be back tomorrow.