A fine line

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Last night I put a chicken in the oven to roast at 7pm, at 200 degrees. An hour later the oven hadn't even warmed up and we realised the bottom element was broken. I had to rush out and get dinner for Steve and Kirsty our houseguest and I, then the music came on next door. We called Noise Control and went to bed a bit churned up, as usual. Then the phone rang at five am. Phones ringing at five am are always one of two things: a wrong number or bad news. This was the latter, my sister saying that my grandmother was "sick" and we needed to get to the hospital fast. We were there by 5:30 and walked in to see little Noni all trussed up in a big hospital bed with tubes for Africa. Mum told us that she'd had a heart attack and might not live long. So we girls gathered around her and held her hands and stroked her hair. Then something pretty cool happened. She opened her eyes and saw the three of us and mum and dad and the three grandsons-in-law around her and started to breathe differently. Her sats dropped then rose, her heart rate stabilised and her colour came back. Mum said it was extraordinary how when we walked in, something changed. She started to ask whether she was dying (Steve's response: "If you can ask the question, you're probably not!") and that progressed to a half-smile or two and even a joke. A couple of hours later she was up on the ward, an hour or so after that she was off the oxygen and breathing on her own. It's not clear how well she'll be after this, but she's alive now and that's all that matters.

And I thought about how it's such a fine line between life and death, and in rare cases it's your will to live that makes all the difference. Although how the sight of Jo and Nikki and I half-asleep and makeupless could make anyone want to live I don't know. No offence, guys.