I am posting this from the side of my daughter's hospital bed. She is currently in a fitful doze, struggling to find refuge in sleep but waking every 5-10 minutes to fight pain and make sure I am still with her.
I am. My hand holding hers, stroking, wishing there were something more (anything) I could do.
I study her face, eyes closed and mouth half-open... shallow snores that make me hope sleep may have finally rescued her... but knowing that any moment she will awaken yet again and I will hear, "Mama, it hurts, help me!". A knife cut.
She is 17, on the precipice of adulthood. Yet, I know she will never be able to claim it.
I gaze upon her profile -- that nose... that chin... that ear... those eyebrows, that hair I used to braid... all of it so terribly and sweetly familiar to me, yet I can only vaguely remember what it looked like 15 years ago when she was a toddler.
When she was little, I used to wonder what she would be like as a teenager, unable to imagine how different it would be. Turns out, in many ways it IS very different -- but in one way it is not different at all. In one way it IS the same. She is still my baby and I ache to cradle her in my arms and rock her and have my magical love make all the pain wash away and make her world right and safe again.
But it doesn't work that way any more. I am going to lose her. And I don't know how I am going to survive that.
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