You grow quiet as we drive in to the school grounds and you anticipate him leaving you. You wimper every time his school bag and friendship retreat off down into the playground and we drive away.

Your voice rises in excitement as he gets in the car at the end of the day, and you go through every detail of your last six hours, lest he might have missed you as much as you’ve missed him. He looks at you through tired-glazed eyes, but knows it’s important to you… “That sounds like fun!” he musters up, looking straight into your smiling eyes, smiling as well.

Now you need to know what he did during his day; who he played with, how was art class and what was in his lunchbox today. “Was it fun?”

You sit as close to him as you can, while he unwinds on the lounge with some tele after school. Sometimes it’s right up and on him. You chatter through the story he’s trying to listen to. He doesn’t mind. He has missed you just as much. He puts his arm around you and you snuggle under the blanket together.

We drop you off for an hour at nanny’s, and he strains out the window, yelling “have fun” as we drive off. He repeats over and over that he thinks you’ll have a fun time, convincing himself that you’ll be alright in your separation. And as soon as that hour is up, he is asking when we will go and get you.

You play together, rumble, and spend most of your time giggling. You bicker, but never argue; one of you always feels sorry for the other ultimately and the friendship is immediately restored. If you are in trouble, he sticks up for you.. “he wants to say sorry mum”…

You have copied him from the moment you could: Laughing when he laughed at 4 months old, at what you didn’t know… Walking two steps behind him everywhere when you were one…Building the same Lego ship when you were four. Now I watch you observe him reading and learning at five, knowing that will be next.

You want to be clever at art like him, and brilliant at soccer, just the same as him. But it pains you when you can’t keep up. And when I suggest doing something different, using your own special skills, you look at me in amusement, as if I’ve gone mad.

My sister asks how she will ever love another baby as much as she loves her first. I say, you will, it will be just as amazing and great. But, infinitely better, is that then, you will see them love each other.

Saving Miss Molly

The first man told me he could see nothing wrong. “But bring her back in four hours and we’ll have another look.”

The next woman said it was usually nothing but we’ll do the standard blood tests and xray.

The next man, an hour’s drive away, said we’re going to operate. Now.

They said to sing to my limp six month-old baby as she fell off the precipice of consciousness and into emergency surgery.

The next man said we’ve cleaned her up, and now she’ll have medicine in her jugular for a month.

That man got out of his bed at 1am in the dead of winter, a year ago next week, to save our baby’s life. He came to visit the next morning. He looked like he could cry when he said to me “you’ve had a bad night hey? Is she not doing that well?”

At later bad news he did suggest a tear in my presence. “I’m sorry I couldn’t hide my worry…” I said I wouldn’t get through this with a doctor who didn’t show he cares.

We were "part of the furniture" they said, we were there that long. Women and men crowded around us like a pair of arms, carrying us, caring for us, showing us love while we were isolated from those who loved us. My baby floated upon their compassion, up and down, through needles, tubes, oxygen and isolation. They dragged me when I stopped, heavy on the outskirts of their responsibility, crying, sleepless, insane and unsure.

‘Nurse’ and ‘doctor’ are silly words. These people have God in them. They save lives. They saved mine: Our baby survived.

Sydney Children’s Hospital made her little life that is less, much more. Next week (from Monday 11 June) is Gold Week, a fund raiser for the hospital. You never know, you may just need it too one day.