Two lifetimes ago

The boom and crack of fireworks echoed around, evoking the wonder of childhood. Tonight we were not eating grapes and cheese, snuggled en famille on a picnic rug, under the blossoming light show.

My little 5-year-old ripped off her oxygen mask to run to the hospital window.

“I wanna see!”

“We can’t see it from here.”

I jumped up to tuck her back into the crisp white sheet. It was 9:30pm and she was hyped up by the medicine she had been given all day. Her eyelids were drooping but her heart was beating so fast that she could not stay still. She was on edge. When the next boom came, it sounded like it was right there in our room.

We had been to the hospital with asthma before, many times, but this time was different. Somehow, this had gone from normal to severe in an instant. On Friday, she had a cold and mild asthma. By 6am Saturday, it was an emergency.

A casual ‘how are you’ from a friend sends part of me into a blubbering infant, rocking in fetal position. I was tired, I had watched Paw Patrol on repeat for 48 hours straight and I was anxious as a cat doing its number twos. Sorry friend, I saw you two days ago but I have lived two lifetimes since then.

One lifetime, in which I spent every second trying not to think about what could happen next, focusing on the warm little hand in mine. I talked to her, babbled really, about anything and everything, to distract from the loud hum of the machinery and the sweaty confinement of the mask. All the while I was thinking I haven’t had enough minutes with this child, I could never hear her belly laugh enough or be shocked into giggles enough by the poignancy of her observations. I haven’t taught her enough about life and people and loving yourself. And I haven’t learnt enough from her. Please.

The second lifetime, after the immediate emergency was past, was the mind-numbing waiting and recuperation. It was the constant hum of the machine and beep of the warning of danger level. It kept me awake, recounting what had happened to the nurses for the twentieth time. It kept my brain flooded with adrenalin, at attention, ready to arm myself with an inhaler or glass of water at the slightest need.

I can never express how grateful I am for these doctors and nurses that save lives every day.

I know I could not do it: Missing fireworks night because you’re at work, seeing children screaming with broken arms, dealing with worried parents asking inane questions. So. Much. Respect.

Well, I am exhausted. Better go catch up on some much-needed sleep.

Via Constant