Worlds Apart

She is lying just inches from me, but we feel worlds apart. Her body is elevated on a white cloud of pillows, but she looks horribly uncomfortable. She is trapped in a spider web of tubes, one protruding from her nose to sustain her life, another running from her tiny chubby arm to the IV pump hovering over my head, and the last one sticking out of her sock to record her heart rate and oxygen level. As I look at her, I can see her belly rising and falling, trying desperately to breathe. I try to sync my breath with hers but realize I'm about to hyperventilate. It is just too fast. A bead of sweat runs down her forehead and rests on her pale round cheek. When I start to adjust her blankets, I quickly realize she isn't hot. She is sweating because her fragile body is desperately working to breathe. I brush her wet blond curls from her eyes, and she stirs. I hold her close, but know this is out of my hands.

As I lay beside her, I think of the last time we shared a hospital bed. Our baby surprise had finally arrived and she was beautiful. I never pictured, on that wonderful day, that we would be back under different circumstances. She is not the one who is supposed to be wearing the hospital gown. This is not how a mother ever wants to see her child.