The horror, the horror

And so, off we skipped to Chelsea & Westminster Hospital. All very merry, my two girls and I, with hope in our hearts and feeling fine about what lay ahead. And looking forward to Topshop afterwards.

Bless them. Both Eldest and Youngest Daughter were being so brave and optimistic, despite our appalling track record when it comes to blood tests. On the No. 14 bus, Eldest Daughter said cheerily, 'Mum, I soooo promise you that I'm not going to pass out this time!' Youngest Daughter, not to be outdone, added, 'I'm actually really looking forward to it. I'm not going to cry. Only babies and losers cry!'

In the Phlebotomy Department, we waited just under an hour for our number to come up (I was pleasantly surprised that it wasn't longer). Eldest revised Spanish GCSE vocabulary (typical first born) and Youngest tucked into Malorie Blackman's 'Noughts & Crosses'. I read someone's discarded Daily Mail (why?! it only ever infuriates me) and drank a Starbucks skinny latte and fretted about the prevalence of Swine Flu (couldn't help but notice that everyone around us looked terribly unwell and all seemed to be coughing and sweating profusely).

And then, all of a sudden, it was our turn.

Eldest Daughter elected to go first (being older and that little bit bolder). She sat down in the chair, made very grown-up small talk about our imminent trip to Malta (which made me feel ridiculously proud of her) with the lovely, diminutive phlebotomist (who looked just like a Sylvanian, only cuter) while he proceeded to strap her arm with what looked like the inner tube of a bicycle tyre. And through it all, Eldest Daughter kept smiling (with her eyes tightly shut): needle in, several phials of blood taken, needle out. Plaster on. Job done.

'Phew,' I thought. 'One down, one to go.'

Then Eldest Daughter looked at me and said, 'Ummm. Sorry, Mum. But I think I need to lie down,' and pulled her knees up to her chest.

Next thing, Eldest Daughter was gone. Utterly and completely gone, it seemed. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and, ashen-faced, she slumped forward in her chair. I caught her and held her face between my hands, unable to think. I looked around. The room was full. Absolutely everyone was staring at us.

Three minutes later the room was empty. Someone had shut the door. Eldest Daughter was still slumped in her chair, unresponsive. Little Sylvanian Phlebotomist was holding an ice-pack against my daughter's neck. Chief Phlebotomist was slapping Eldest Daughter's beautiful, pale face (don't do that!!) and shouting, 'What is your name? How old are you?', while I watched in horror and disbelief, thinking, 'This is how easy it is to lose a child.'

In the background, someone else was on the phone to A&E, requesting immediate assistance. I heard them say, 'It has been more than three minutes and she's not come back.'

I thought her heart had stopped.

It was surreal. I felt as if I'd stumbled into an episode of ER.

No, much worse than that. I felt like I was in a Tarantino movie.

I heard myself saying, 'Is she still breathing?' No one replied. I asked, 'Is her heart beating?' Still, no one replied. I tried finding her heartbeat myself. I couldn't feel anything beneath her little chest and I could feel the hysteria rising in mine. Eldest Daughter looked really, really dead. She hadn't made a sound - not a moan, not a groan. Nothing. The last time I'd seen anyone as pale and inert and dead-looking was when my Mum died. I suddenly thought of Youngest Daughter outside, nose in book, innocently awaiting her turn. Would she have noticed how long things were taking? Would she have noticed the shut door? Could I possibly leave Eldest Daughter and go to her? I tried to remember where in the world Ex-Husband was. From some dark corner of my mind, I dredged up that he was in New York with Much Younger Fiancee. 'How quickly could he get here?', I wondered.

I also wondered whether or not, under the circumstances, it would be appropriate for me to call Brixton Man.

And then the door flew open and there was a Very Little Consultant in the room. She was absolutely tiny and very blonde and dressed in scrubs (had she been hauled out of an operating theatre?) and she was immediately in charge (although she looked about sixteen). She took Eldest Daughter by the shoulders, shook her gently, spoke to her in a calm, soft voice.

She said, 'Who are you here with?' and, as if by some miracle, Eldest Daughter opened her eyes and replied, 'My little sister.'

In the end, we didn't go to Topshop. Youngest Daughter (miracle of miracles) allowed herself to be subjected to a blood test too, blissfully unaware of the drama that had unfolded just a few feet from where she sat (thank you, Malorie Blackman). When I ushered her in (feeling light-headed and nauseous but putting on an Oscar-worthy performance of Calm, Happy Mum) I could see all the phlebotomists recoil in horror at the prospect of a repeat performance. Youngest Daughter cried a bit ... but remained conscious before, during and after. Only then did we regale her with the full horror story. We stayed at the hospital for another two hours, so that Eldest Daughter's recovery could be monitored.

And then we went home.

Me to weep, Eldest Daughter to sleep, Youngest Daughter to continue 'Noughts & Crosses' from the comfort of our very comfy sofa.