Why is this so difficult? Others have it worse. It must be difficult for me because I'm totally unprepared. Seeing my infant daughter in the hospital breaks me, but it shouldn't.
Remembering that it could be worse, how hard others have it, being told about biblical Job, isn't helpful. I feel depressed that others have it worse. Unfair.
My daughters rests her head against my chest. Her tongue is swollen to maximum capacity. The uninformed nurse suggests I feed her from a bottle. I wonder if my nurse if visually impaired. Blood is flowing from the wound under my baby's tongue.
My back is sore, but I keep holding her because she won't be comforted any other way. I spent the night in a hard chair, never sleeping. My wife slept on the cold wood floor. We weren't expecting to stay the night; the baby was expected to be healed by now; nothing was going as expected.
Between fits of pain and bleeding, the baby sleeps in my arms against my chest. I learn that she probably isn't sleeping, she's probably collapsing with exhaustion. It's been days since the baby has eaten anything. Her eyes roll, then close for another collapse. The only medicine she has is Tylenol and antibiotics. I think it's time for a new prescription.
The baby doesn't recognize the person who just entered the room, so she clings closer to me. While the newcomer performs a new procedure the baby cries a new song. A new cry that screams "Stop it. Why won't someone save me?" Then she collapses.
They keep moving her in and out of the ICU to make room for new patients. The multiple moves keep the baby's anxiety fresh, and also results in the ripping of the IV from her foot. Blood now from her top and bottom, her bed is soiled. The nurse has now provided me new sheets after three hours.
The antibiotics give her diarrhea. It finds its way to my pants, of course; I don't have another pair. I clean her up. She hates being put on her back--so untrusting now. I hold her to my chest again and the blood flows to my sleeves. I smell her breath. The potent odor of rotting flesh--of wounds unhealed--should never come from a baby's body.
We're both a smelly pair, neither bathed in days. We do our best to clean the mess, but the swelling continues anyway. Her exhaustion gets worse. Her blood clots get worse. Her heartbeat: irregular, leading to more procedures, leading to more haunting sounds. I can't tell her it'll all be okay. She's too young to understand; she thinks it'll go on forever. I don't know what I would say anyway.
Exhaustion reaches me. I blaspheme. Then again with real intent. I'm dizzytired. My arms can't hold her anymore. She's only getting worse. I fear the worst.
My wife takes over, so I make my way home on public transit. It takes longer than it should. I'm covered in mess. People give looks, I have violent thoughts.
Finally, I'm home. It should feel bigger because it's empty, but it's as small as ever, as expensive as ever. Work at the office is piling up, unlike my checking account. No help from Above. Others have it worse and I don't care. I'm broken. Life's unfair...blasphemously hopeless. I know God's there; I no longer care.
I remove my shirt to find my under-garments stained blood-red. I apologize to Him. I hope He forgives. Meanwhile, maybe I'll find and help someone worse-off.