I watch the machine beep behind you; the rhythmic pulsations sending a spike every few seconds. I watch your chest rise and fall, proof that you’re alive. But then, you’re not, are you?
Medical science has endured miracles. Sadly, none of those seem to work for us. And nothing moves you anymore. Not our family, not our friends, not people from work. And certainly not me. I read you stories and recollected memories. I ranted and raved, cried and screamed, cursed and abhorred. I even tried to hate you for putting me in this position and failed at that. Miserably.
I am down to the end of the rope. Because I am down to the last shred of our savings. They say I should let you go so I can provide for our baby. I want you to wake up so I do not have to choose between you and her. And so, in a last ditch attempt of desperation, I place her dainty little form on you. I watch as she quivers a bit and places her tiny fist under your chin, settling down neatly into the nook of your neck. Like it was sculpted for her. Laying there like that, you both look like a picture of normalcy. And yet I know, it is anything but that.
I watch for signs of recognition, awareness, anything. But there is none. Maybe I imagine the flutter of your lashes, or I desperately will you to awake. Do you see her at all, this seven pound mixture of awe and delight? We have waited forever. You and me. And we have waited thirteen days. Me and her. Feels like forever. Please wake up.
The monitor behind you continues to write out spikes, the machine continuing to breathe for you as I realize I have been holding my breath. How do I do this? I am not ready. I don’t think I will ever be. How do I let you go?
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