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By The Glowing Green Light of a Heart Monitor
20 hours ago we sat in the ER.
High fever, throwing-up, then a seizure.
She needs fluids.
She needs medicine.
She needs a doctor.
A needle to her vein
then another
then another.
At first she cries
screams
calls for me.
Then she stops.
She no longer cares about the pain.
Her skin burns red with heat.
Her eyes roll back.
Vacant.
She isn’t here anymore.
I hear words all around me.
Meningitis.
Liver Failure.
Neurological Disorder.
In their echo I think what I dare not say
I am watching my baby die.
I place my trembling hand on her chest.
Rise.
Fall.
Then
nothing.
Please take another breath.
Please.
Please.
Please.
Then
Rise.
Fall.
Thank you God.
Over and over we ride each torturous wave of breath.
These people can't save her.
They don't know what to do.
They don't know she likes her pancakes cut in four equal, but not
touching, pieces.
She can count to 20 but always skips 16.
She calls yesterday "tolasterday."
How can they save her when they don’t know that?
More tests.
A brain scan.
They are moving us upstairs.
She is absent from it all.
I lay curled around her body in this child's bed.
Wrapped in a web of wires and tubes.
Machines beeping all around.
She is so small.
Yesterday, she was so big.
But today, my God, she is so small.
2AM - she wakes me.
"Mommy, I have to go potty."
"Mommy, I don't like these cords."
"Mommy, I want to go home."
I exhale for the first time in 20 hours.
Thank you.
Thank you God.
- Laura Goeller
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