Two images will haunt me to the grave.
First image: my daughter, Zoe, then 14, sits on the bottom stair. It’s time for bed. Or in an hour it will be. Her face winces with the usual pain and exhaustion, but terror, too, of the ordeal ahead.
One stair at a time, shuffling on her bum, several minutes essential break between each stair, she will now take an hour to haul herself upstairs.
Why would parents torture her like this? Non-specialists have insisted Zoe separate night from day. Total rest will decondition her.
Indeed, the community-physio tells Zoe she should take a walk up and down the garden; only people with hangovers lie on the couch all day.
A terrifying sense that Dr Google knows more about Zoe’s illness than local medics is confirmed when Zoe collapses and needs admission to hospital.