Your granddaughter just threw up for the eighth time tonight (I think; I've actually lost count). At some point this evening, she looked at me miserably and said, "I miss Giempa." I agreed wholeheartedly.
It's of course a general missing, but also specific to the situation: the Cricket gets sick or hurt; the Mommy reassures, knows and does all the right things, but secretly worries; the Giempa (because he is a doctor and therefore Knows About These Things) gets called in the guise of reassuring the Cricket when in fact he is reassuring the Mommy.
And the Mommy needs to be reassured about so very many things, Dad. I wish you could pick up the phone in heaven. I miss you.
Love, Your Daughter
P.S. Update: She stopped by midnight and had a good sleep. She stayed in the big bed with me and poor Dan slept on the couch downstairs. That meant that every time she rolled over or coughed, though, I was wide awake and ready to lunge for the bucket. So I'm running on fumes (and caffeine) at work today, but I don't have to tell you what that's like. You remember what it was like to do rounds after a night on call. People get sick. The world keeps turning. I still miss you.