Nick remains critical and his life still very much in the balance. All the statistics give him little chance of survival, let alone more than that. The doctors hold out the most slender hopes of anything at all for him. Anything I can pin them down to makes them give the most negative of prognoses. 

The doctors had said they would step the drugs down slowly, perhaps over a couple of weeks. They didn’t, they went very suddenly. Yet now their drugs are, slowly, beginning to clear his system and it is a dangerous time for him as the strain to his body is harsh. He is holding and still fairly stable, though we have been praying that he will slip away gently.

When I walked in yesterday morning and leaned over him and said hello, his eyelids flew open, his beautiful blue eyes moved to meet mine, and filled with tears. 

Kevin said his eyes looked like those of a newborn baby, and they were, indeed, the same violet blue as when he was born.

I dried his tears, unable to hold back my own, and there was fear in his eyes. I could feel it and see it, without question. So I held his hand and talked to him, telling him he had been very poorly but he was safe and loved and cared for. And he held my hand, tightly.

The nurses had said ‘no change’.. oh…apart from the fact that he is obeying them, putting his tongue out, blinking for them!

We watched the monitors, and when I was in his field of vision, or spoke to him, or held his hand, his heart rate went up each time.

He had a couching fit which, with the ventilator tubes must be appalling for him, and the fear came back to his and the tears, though that may have been his eyes watering, the fear was real. The grip on my hand was very strong.. which could have been reflexive of course, but he kept it up long after he had calmed down.

When the nurses chucked me out to turn him, I told him what was happening and said I’d have to go. He held me tighter.

All day he followed my voice with his eyes, and as his friends came in, moved his eyes to them.

The movement in his eyes is difficult and unfocussed. But he is moving them now, and when he looked at me, the pupils dilated a lot, which is the first visible movement I have seen in them.

He is breathing for himself… badly and unevenly, but he is trying. The ventilator picks up what he cannot manage. His nostrils flare, his tongue has a little movement, his face keeps moving a little and it looked very much as if he was trying to make his mouth work to say something… though I admit that may be wishful thinking on my part.

There is as yet absolutely no sign of any movement on the right hand side of his body, which I expected given the extent of the damage to the left hemisphere. The movements elsewhere are tiny wobbly and fragile, his eyes are still not clear with expression.

This is all very little in the grand scheme of things, I know. But it means soooo much! And also breaks my heart.

If he can move at all, consciously and responsively, even the fractional movements he has now, it means there is something still there. The damage is in an area which, amongst other things, processes language and the meanings of words. If he can respond, it means he has some understanding of language, and can process it. It means he has, at some level, some conscious choice. It means he still has some hearing at least. If he obeys commands from the nurse, he has some control left. If he moves his eyes to look at people, he must have some sight left. If he can understand and respond to me saying I have to go for a few minutes then there is human emotion left. And perhaps most heartachingly, he recognises something in my presence… whether he recognises ‘Mum’ or not, he at least recognises that I am reassuring.

Hope is a terrible thing in many ways. I have seen my son look out of his eyes into mine, so now my heart leaps and wants to shout for joy, even though there is so little of him there at present. Even though we have no idea whether he can regain more than this, even though he may still die.

My head keeps reminding me that the damage is so severe that it is medically unlikely he will ever have much more than this and how appalled he will be if he cannot come back to full life. My heart breaks for him; fearing for him, fearing to see him trapped in a healthy body that will be a prison should he regain himself but not his function.

We still do not know how badly the brain stem has been compromised, nor do we know the extent of the damage to function caused by the damage to his brain. It looks at the very least as if there is functional damage equivalent to serious stroke on the right of his body. It will take much time to assess. And logically, we can expect very little in terms of recovery, and Nick would not want to survive like this. Nor do I want him to suffer a lifetime of hurt and frustration.

So now I am torn for him even more. I believe in the stubborn minded little bugger. I have hope and faith that he can drag himself out of this hell somehow.. yet I am terrified he will be here, trapped, unable to drag himself back far enough for him. All the while knowing my emotions are running far too fast and he may still not survive.

Yet, he has given me so much hope, unreasonable hope perhaps, and so much joy. For the last two weeks as I have sat beside him, holding his hand and talking to him, I have told him that the two things I pray for, that I most want in this world right now is for him to look into my eyes and know I am there, and to hold my hand for himself. I have had my prayer granted and feel as is I am part of a miracle.

But now, I need a bigger miracle for my Nick. A much bigger miracle. I need enough of him back to be able to fight his way back to who he needs to be. Or I need him to let go of life and go Home.

In the waiting room yesterday, a young Portuguese man waited for his wife to come out of surgery. When the surgeon came in and said she had survived, he broke down, so we left him and his sister to their tears in some privacy. Later we spoke again, and he called his mother to have her Church pray for Nick, and his sister who is the Mother Superior of a convent at Fatima. I pray for this young mother too.

Alex is ok after coming off his bike. He didn’t hit the deer… it was the second one that had jumped out at him yesterday… but crashed trying to avoid it. The bike has had it, but at least he is ok. I am just surprised he hasn’t ended up in hospital riding it the past couple of weeks in tears and pain.