THE TRANSIENT ATTACK

"Check you out with a window seat! Room with a view, eh Mumsy?"

She was smiling. That's a good sign, a really good sign. My Dad was slumped in the green armchair next to the bed, still wearing his coat and clutching a plastic punnet of mixed grapes. On the small table, an array of brightly-coloured cards stood sentry next to a pot of artificial flowers.

My sisters are calling it a TIA. That's a Transient something-or-other Attack which is effectively a mini-stroke. We're none of us sure exactly when it happened, or whether there has been more than one, but that is what it is - a clotting of blood resulting in reduced oxygen to the brain. Slurred speech, poor co-ordination, loss of balance, tiredness are all symptoms.

"Mind you," I said to her, "Those are all symptoms of too much cherry brandy as well, you know!" I winked and she laughed. This lady is classy enough to have never been drunk once.

It makes for a lousy Christmas, that's for sure, when your Mum's in hospital. I feel like I've been engaged in a game of distraction these last few days. Eat some Yule log, sing a carol, edit a keyboard patch, play Star Wars Lego Battle of Hoth, try on socks, watch YouTube videos about Star Trek, hum a harmony, distraction, distraction, distraction. Leap to the phone.

"Hi Matt, how's your Mum?"

Oh dear, yes. Now I feel guilty about getting distracted. I don't even like Star Trek.

"She's in good spirits," I say, "Dad's there now. I think we'll all go in, a bit later on..."

Transient - that's what it's supposed to be. It floods in like a tidal wave of fear and anxiety, turns everything upside down then sweeps out just as quickly.

Things won't be the same though. I think we're all aware of it. The effects will be far from transient. When she recovers, we'll all have to reorganise the way we do things to lighten the load for her. Matriarch that she is, she herself will find that more frustrating than any of us. For now, we can only think about that as a bridge we've yet to cross.

I don't want to get preachy about it, but it's at times like this that I wonder how people with no faith, with no relationship with God, can cope at all. In our weakness, we find ourselves clinging to Jesus, who never promised us a life of continuous mountaintops and open skies (despite what those awful televangelists say) but does promise to walk with us through the deepest and darkest and most dangerous of valleys. What if you didn't know that he was there in it with you? The thought makes me shudder.

The good news is that the CT scan found the clot and maybe even the source of it, which might mean they can target it a bit more specifically with a better combination of treatments. As ever with medicine though, they're careful not to guarantee anything.

"Five minutes!" said the matron. That didn't seem like a lot of time, suddenly. I checked my watch. 4:55pm.

"I'm sorry it's been so short," I said eventually, clutching my Mum's hand.

"Oh it's what you do with your time that's most important," she whispered. Ain't that the truth.

"See you tomorrow, Mumsy," I said smiling. My Dad and I clumped out of the ward, back to the car and home.