Now we’re back on the paediatric cardiology ward, which is great. It’s just that it’s noisy, and I’m so tired. My head is throbbing, and the poor little girl diagonally across from us keeps screaming in pain. There’s a family visiting in here, and their twin toddlers are running around and yelling at the top of their voices. I’ve given Tabs my noise-cancelling headphones so she can nap, and I’m kicking myself for not bringing earplugs, too. I have no idea how she’s supposed to heal in here. Busy paediatric wards are the least restorative places on the planet.

I’m not usually one to throw a pity party, but I’m not normally so sleep-deprived either. I wasn’t doing too badly, actually, until I scrolled through Instagram in a vain attempt to distract myself from this revolting hospital cafeteria sandwich and my feed served up GOSH’s posts of its latest fundraiser.

The very first post on the carousel?

Brendan Sullivan grinning and looking like every woman’s wet dream in black tie with the ridiculously gorgeous Brazilian supermodel Fernanda Luz da Costa on his arm. She’s so leggy and flawless, and he looks so suave and, let’s face it, smug. They’re perfect together. They both look like megastars.

Do you know what? It’s a good thing. It’s a helpful reminder that this guy’s lane is a motorway and mine is some country road full of potholes and I should stay in my lane. I should be grateful for this additional piece of evidence that the universe has served up to nudge me back on course. He and I have had a very specific kind of relationship, and he made it clear exactly what kind of worth I have in his mind on Friday. I shouldn’t require any more data.

I throw my phone onto the bed in disgust and pick up the little pink notebook by Tabby’s bed. It’s her gratitude journal, a habit I’ve tried to instil in her even while I’ve failed to take my own good advice. We write in it together every single night. When she was little, I would do the writing, but now she does it. I open it and leaf through the pages.

Mummy sang to me when I couldn't breave.

I gave Daniel chease and he gave me his paw.

Mummy says were going to Amercia and a special doctor will fix me.

I feel breathless, suffocated by that constant chokehold of love and terror and gratitude and unresolved intrusive thoughts.

Last night’s entry, written in the ICU, was this:

My hart is better and i had strawberry jelly.

It’s the perfect reminder from my greatest and most treasured teacher that we can give thanks for the big stuff and the small stuff alike. But right now I’m so broken that it feels impossible.