Another Day in ICU: Holding On

Wednesday, 19th November 2025

The 7AM call from GOSH jolted me awake — heart racing, palms clammy, every worst thought crashing through my head at once. But the moment I heard Maya’s ICU nurse’s cheerful voice, the panic melted. She apologised; she only needed me to come in by 7:45AM to sign the consent for Maya’s MRI brain and spine with contrast.

At the Parents’ Kitchen, one of Maya’s supporters — Suzy— who happens to work at GOSH — spotted me. We talked for nearly 45 minutes. It was strangely comforting, hearing how many people across this hospital and Kent are rooting for Maya, even people I’ve never met. Support comes from the most unexpected corners.

Maya spent almost three hours in the MRI suite. The logistics still amaze me — transporting a ventilated child from the 4th floor to the basement without disconnecting a single line or tube. The scan will be reviewed by more than one radiology consultant, so no results yet. More waiting. Always waiting. It’s a torture.

My mother-in-law Dora and Maya’s teacher Sue arrived just in time to help me vacate our space in cubicle 10 on Lion Ward. They helped move everything to the family accommodation, a short five-minute walk from GOSH, and I felt quietly grateful for the help, distraction from familiar faces and support.

Dora and I washed Maya’s hair in the ICU today. There was still dried blood tangled in it from yesterday’s frightening nosebleed, and gently cleaning her felt like one of the few motherly things I could still do for her. Sue stood by her bedside and read her favourite books aloud. And Maya… she knew they were there. Her eyes blinked slowly in response, and at times tiny tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Seeing her like this — intubated, fragile, fighting — shattered all of our hearts.

At one point, Maya locked her jaw so tightly that the ventilator couldn’t push air in. The ICU nurse reacted immediately, sliding a foam wedge between her teeth to protect the ventilator tube and to stop her biting her own tongue. Even these small moments become life-or-death in ICU. Every second counts. Every breath counts.

Then came the EMG (nerve conduction tests), to see if Maya’s nerves are intact or if paralysis has set in. No results yet. The uncertainty is a cruel companion.

In the afternoon, Maya’s consultant sat with me to go through an incredibly detailed care plan. I could see the strain in her eyes — two weeks of worry etched into her face. She is throwing absolutely everything she can into pulling Maya back. I followed every drug, every measurement, every medical term. And when she finished talking, there was a moment of silence between us.

I looked at her piercing blue eyes and gently asked, “Thank you for that. And how are you?”

Maya’s consultant’s composure cracked. Tears ran down her cheeks, her face red, trying to hold it all in. She is fighting for Maya just as fiercely as we are. She looked drained, heartbroken, human. Dora and Sue saw it too — a moment of shared vulnerability no one expected, but all of us felt deeply.

Throughout the day, my husband Terry calls several times and each time he asked me if Maya will pull through. His voice trembles. I told him she will be okay — because I have to believe it. Hope is the only steady thing in a world that no longer makes sense.

After walking Dora and Sue to their 7:07pm train at St Pancras, Terry insisted I get some dinner. I really don’t have an appetite nowadays, one meal a day, but I keep myself well-hydrated — 1.5 to 2 litres of water a day. Small victories.

I returned to the ICU to sit with Maya. I stroked her forehead and sang her favourite songs. Her eyes slowly closed (partially closed). It soothed her — and for a moment, it soothed me too.

London felt brutally cold tonight — 2°C but more like –3 with the wind. Our lovely friend Jess from Henry’s Karaoke video-called me so I could watch Kelly and Ben sing “Have You Ever Seen The Rain” (I usually sing this tune). Everyone said hello. And suddenly I felt tears sting my eyes. Karaoke always reminds me of Maya belting out her favourite tunes with so much joy. I’m usually the strong one, but maybe tonight it was okay to let myself be human. Everyone sent their love.

If only love could cure…