Take two.
Simon Jordan is fit and well and has just spent five hours operating on Rose. He has removed two tumours, found no others and she is in intensive care beginning her recovery.
I started the day sobbing uncontrollably over her anaesthetised body in theatre and am now elated and euphoric. Simon and I spent the morning drinking coffee endlessly and watching the hours tick by. Again. When the surgeon calls us from theatre to say it's all over and went well we have to remind ourselves that it's not really over at all. On our cramped ward a mother asks us casually what Rose is having done and we stare blankly at her. Everyone else is having an ingrowing toenail removed.
But it's over - almost four months from the beginning of this new hell and Rose's tumours are out, she is drifting in a morphine world cuddling Snuffles and we have a new surgical god.
