I’m sitting in this small darkened room.

Ivy sleeps as one who is recovering.

From what,

I am still not sure.

I thought we were done with mystery illnesses.

Life has a funny way of grounding you.

The paediatrician has come and gone

and will remain gone now as he tends to his own conference

while we wait to see if this is another line infection.

I’m hoping not.

We talked for a very long time yesterday.

He wants me to take her to Westmead Children’s.

An extended stay.

I can’t.

I just can’t.

Not only logistically

but for vague emotional reasons too.

William,

born in the hospital in which we currently reside

was transferred to Westmead

and died there.

I lie awake some nights knowing in the very depths of my soul

that I will not survive another child dying

that I cannot possibly come out the other end

and be anything but a brittle, crumbling shell.

The thought of transferring down there

brings up sad memories

along with the harsh realities of Ivy’s illness.

They mingle together.

They intertwine

and the paediatrician,

although he could not possibly know my secret thoughts,

my heart’s weaknesses,

worried over the girl’s mortality yesterday -

defined it.

I worry too.

I think about it often

but push it down

trying to enjoy every moment,

hoping that each time we find ourselves in this place,

that we are fighting the good fight

and not watching on the side lines as death lines up to dance.

Wall flowers in our very own nightmare.

It is hard to wrap your head around morbidity and mortality

while you are waiting for your sick child to come back

from something that you don’t fully grasp.

Something that you cannot

because you can only ever be on the outside looking in.

The girl is better today.

Sitting up for small periods, drinking and eating some.

It’s not much

but it is progress

and I know that she will be fine,

given time

and lots of medication.

Meanwhile I can sit here,

and watch her sleep

and battle with my inner most fears.