On the runway, walking towards the ambulance, I remember looking back at the plane and up into the cockpit. I saw the pilot looking at us and wondered what he must be thinking. I saw my father and my Step Mum get into a cab. Then I followed my son, who was being cradled by a paramedic, into the ambulance.
He was lying, as I had seen him before, on the ambulance bed face covered in an oxygen mask and I knew where to sit and I held his hand. There was a very important looking paramedic already on board who spoke good English but it was a while before he did. I asked him how long it would be before we could get the all clear and carry on with our onward voyage to Cephalonia. The words he spoke next shook me out of my holiday fantasy and into a very new and very real world. He said "Do you know how much it takes to land an aeroplane?" "£100.000..... no air line will fly you now, and we would want to carry out a few tests before you go anywhere, you'll be with us for a few days I'd expect". It felt like I had been hit by a huge demolition ball and it had shattered everything. I was reeling, And that was the moment, the crux of the matter, the turning point, the point of no return. I wept. I could not stop the tears. I was sitting there holding my sons hand worrying about him and keeping a constant watch on his breathing. From past experience I knew that with good medical help and rest he would be ok in a day or so and life would continue as normal, or so it had previously. But now life was not continuing as normal. My holiday had ended and I was on the way to somewhere I didn't know and I didn't know how to get home from.
The journey to the children's hospital took about an hour and I tried to look out of the window and take in as much as I could to get my bearings but it wasn't helping. When the ambulance doors opened a tall, blond, young German man took my son in his arms and carried him towards the hospital entrance. This was strange as at home they would have put him on a stretcher and wheeled him into A&E. I followed and we were taken into a small room where my son was placed on a bed, without any oxygen, and we were both left alone for some time. I was not sure where my father and my Step Mum were and I kept thinking if breathing was a concern why are they so unconcerned? Finally a nurse came in with my Step Mum who seemed confused as to where my father was. So I asked the nurse in my best school German but she kept saying he was at the "Station " we were both totally confused and a little panicky. Why would he go to the station? After a frantic broken German exchange we found out that "station" in German means ward. Our first exasperated giggle of relief and then we followed her up to my father in "the station". Lots of questions and tests and examinations followed and we were eventually taken to a cot on the ward where I placed my son and he continued to sleep.
We sat there for a while in a shocked silence until in walked the most serene person I have ever met; Maximilien, a Franciscan Friar. He took my father and my Step Mother away to show them local accommodation that his church provided. I sat beside my son and then the most powerful and painful migraine took hold. I managed to ask a nurse for some nurofen and then closed my eyes for a while.......
