Friday started with backache and cardboard boxes staging a coup in my garage.

The boxes have multiplied. I am convinced they are breeding. It looks like Day of the Triffids but with Amazon packaging.

Despite my back protesting, I went to the tip. Grey skies. Slightly bent posture. Negotiating with my spine like it was a difficult business partner.

And because it was Friday, I also made traditional chicken soup.

Proper one. Chicken on the bone. Chicken Breasts, shin of beef, beef bone carrots, celery, onions, swede & fresh parsley. The house smelled like comfort and control.

Naturally, I binge watched four episodes of the new season of Bridgerton while stirring broth like a Regency era domestic goddess.

Only to discover the next four episodes arrive in two weeks.

Cruel.

Dinner was chicken from the soup with sweet potato and vegetables. Elite. I felt in control of life.

Then I strained the soup while listening to tunes and discovered my kitchen scales had drowned in a puddle on the counter.

Did I immediately order new scales because I refuse to live without precise measurements?

Yes.

Saturday was Valentine's

Freezing cold but brilliantly sunny. The only sunny day this week. Typical.

I had a hair appointment booked. We were meant to go to my boyfriend’s for takeaway.

Then my daughter said she felt ill.

Plans cancelled.

Motherhood activated.

But honestly, though, I still went and had my hair done. It is still birthday week and I refuse to surrender glamour entirely.

After the hairdressers, I popped into Sainsbury's to get more sweet potatoes because the night before I had made roasted sweet potatoes and onion it was delicious and I needed it again.

Came home.

Twelve red roses waiting for me.

Proper red roses. Not hinted. Not requested. Just there.

My boyfriend rang the doorbell and surprised me. We played endless games of backgammon instead of going out. Competitive. Dramatic sighs over dice rolls. The kind of “friendly” game that absolutely isn't.

Half term had just started.

Lay ins ahead. Plans most days. A slower week.

I had just launched a new page on my blog.

12 Week Challenge. Twenty four pounds by 13th May. I have done it before. I can do it again.

And then everything changed.

Honestly though, I did not expect my daughter to have a seizure on Saturday 14th February.

She said she felt ill.

I did not think she would be this ill.

After ten minutes I called an ambulance. I know her seizures are non epileptic, but when it does not stop, you act.

The paramedics arrived. One of them looked like Sam Smith. Not relevant, but my brain logged it anyway.

They assessed her.

One of them gave her Midazolam, which she has been told before she should not have.

She came round.

Then they tried to get her to walk downstairs.

Walk.

After a seizure.

She said she felt faint. Of course she did.

She collapsed on the stairs and had another seizure.

She was half on the step, half supported, basically dangling, and I had to say it.

Move her back up.

Because if she goes down like this, she is going down properly.

You forget about politeness. You think about gravity.

They moved her. Decided to ditch the chair and get the RED CARRY BLANKET, sensible decision! 

She had more seizures on the way.

When my daughter briefly came round, the paramedic said to her, “You are the first person I have given Midazolam to.”

I was listening.

My daughter was drifting in and out, clearly not fully aware of what was being said. (However, after a brief conversation on Sunday, she told me she does actually remember that comment). That surprised me, because at the moment she seemed too disoriented to take anything in.

The paramedic’s tone felt almost enthusiastic, which unsettled me. It gave the impression of someone marking a first experience, rather than offering calm reassurance. In that moment, it did not feel careful or measured, and that is what you want when a strong sedative is being administered to your child.

In that moment, I did not feel it was necessary to share that information. It did not add comfort or reassurance, and it was not something my daughter needed to hear while she was vulnerable and recovering.

And this is where I need to say something important.

The best thing I have ever created as a mother of a child with multiple conditions is her Medical Passport.

It has:

Her medications listed clearly. Her conditions listed clearly. Her age. Her photo. My name as emergency contact. The drug she is allergic to. Clear instructions on what not to do during a seizure.

One of those instructions?

Do not expect her to walk downstairs after a seizure. Do not expect her to walk after being given Midazolam, which is a strong sedative.

Every time they asked me a question I said, read the Medical Passport.

The lady paramedic said “oh yes” repeatedly.

I even had to ask them at one point to take her temperature.

And at the end of the night, before they left, they asked me, “Who are you and what is your name?”

Honestly, though.

It is all written down.

We arrived at A&E.

She was taken into Resus.

Bright lights. Monitors. Blood tests. Controlled calm.

You sit there with freshly done hair and adrenaline shaking in your veins thinking how did we get here.

Then, because the human body has no respect for trauma…

I needed the loo.

Urgently.

Down the Resus corridor. Across to X ray. Through the double doors. Avoiding eye contact with corridor families.

And there it was.

The most disgusting hospital toilet in North London, but I knew exactly where this toilet was because of the 23-hour night we spent in A&E; I knew there was a toilet tucked away in X-ray. I even knew how to open the doors with the secret white buttons because I was used to pushing them!

But close. And empty. And the best thing I had seen all night.

Eventually the blood results came back.

A slight infection.

Not enough for antibiotics.

Relief does not cheer. It just loosens your shoulders.

We got home at 3am.

In bed by 3.30am.

But obviously I could not sleep immediately.

I watched twenty minutes of MAFS NZ because strangers marrying each other apparently resets my nervous system.

Then I drank my night time herbal tea.

The same herbal tea that had been brewing since 9pm.

Nine pm.

It had basically matured into botanical concentrate by the time I drank it.

The roses were still on the windowsill. The soup was still in the fridge. The new scales had been delivered. Half-term had just begun. The 12 Week Challenge page was still live.

But the only thing that mattered was this.

She was upstairs. In her own bed. Breathing normally.

Honestly, though, life can flip in a heartbeat.

One minute it is chicken soup and Bridgerton. The next it is Resus and Medical Passports. And then it is 3.30am herbal tea that has been brewing since 9pm.

If you have a child with medical needs, make the passport.

Print it. Update it. Carry it.

And still be prepared to use your voice.

Because sometimes the strongest thing in the room is not the equipment.

It is the mother.