It’s ridiculously early in the morning.
05:31 am, to be exact. Every time I look up, the enormous white analogue clock glares back at me, letting me know that each passing minute feels like an hour.
Although there are no windows, I know it’s still dark outside.
Sunrise isn’t until about 6am. The idea of daybreak frightens me. For the first time in a situation like this, I don’t know what the new dawn will bring.
The only light in the room comes from a dull fluorescent strip on the ceiling. I assume that’s a deliberate choice to reflect the mood that must sit heavy in the atmosphere of a room like this.
Usually, when Mum is brought into hospital by ambulance, I go wherever they are taking her.
But not this time. The paramedics wheeled her in through a set of double doors at speed and stopped me in my tracks.
“You need to wait in here,” they said. “Someone will come and speak to you about your mum soon”.
When is soon?
They gestured towards the empty relatives' room.
I’ve been in the hospital with Mum more times than I’d like to count, but I’ve never been in the relatives' room before.
Although I’ve never been made to sit in one, I’ve always associated the relatives' room with the worst of everything that could happen in the hospital.