I can't sleep. In two hours I will get up and turn your feed off and swap it for just water.
At 7 o'clock I will get up again and quietly turn that off and administer your morning drugs.
Half an hour later a taxi will come and we will drive to hospital.
At 8 o'clock we will arrive at Ward 8, Surgical Ward.
At 9 o'clock I will hand you over to the surgeons who will put you to sleep. I know you will resist.
At 10 o'clock you will wake; groggy, dazed, confused, hurting, in pain.
It is a relatively minor procedure; adenoidectomy and tonsillectomy, tube change and endoscopy.
I can guarantee you will not see it that way.
Children your age aren't creatures of reason and rationale. You are not built to know about the pros and cons of surgical proceedures.
All you will know and care is that it will hurt. And that I brought you there.
I just crept into your room; serenely sleeping and snuffling away. Your perfect face made me feel a clumsy betrayer as I pictured your face contorted in pain and confusion less than 12 hours later.
I'm sorry in advance. So sorry.
Please remember today: the sand, the sea. The sandcastles, Quavers on the beach. Paddling in the North Sea. Throwing rocks at the sea and laughing hysterically as it "ate" them up and growled "thank you very much." Remember the freedom, the rocks, the little pools of water. Remember the sunshine, the standing on the edge of the shore.
And I will remember too, and grasp with all my memory to your little giggles that rang through today as I try to comfort your cries that I know will ring through tomorrow.