I sit staring at the blank white walls, when she sits next to me. I do not want to make eye contact, but I do. She holds my hands. Tears flow from her eyes; chest heaving, she makes futile attempts at speaking. She then tightens her hand around my mine.
He was born late in their marriage. Thirteen is an unlucky number. He was born 13 years after their marriage when they had given up hope. He was their little miracle. And their only miracle. To have him in an accident and have a failing heart is just about the worst thing that could happen.
They want my approval.
My daughter has been in a diabetic coma for 12 years now. She was 13. She fainted one day in the kitchen and has not woken up from it. The doctors say it may take days, weeks or years for her to wake up. They also tell me she might never come out of it.
Do I want that chance of having her wake up soon? Yes. What if she doesn't and the boy dies without ever having had a chance? How will my daughter feel about this when she wakes up? Am I that powerful and strong to deny another life when the one that is shouldn't be? Will I be able to live with the guilt either way?
I can hear monitors beeping, nurses walking, vending machines clink. And I sit staring at the blank white walls, waiting for some sign of superior intervention. I get none. I must make a decision.
I nod. I nod furiously now. She can have her son. I will have my daughter's memory. I will forever regret the decision and base it on what if, but at least I can take comfort in the way his eyes would hold mine- with life.
He was born late in their marriage. Thirteen is an unlucky number. He was born 13 years after their marriage when they had given up hope. He was their little miracle. And their only miracle. To have him in an accident and have a failing heart is just about the worst thing that could happen.
They want my approval.
My daughter has been in a diabetic coma for 12 years now. She was 13. She fainted one day in the kitchen and has not woken up from it. The doctors say it may take days, weeks or years for her to wake up. They also tell me she might never come out of it.
Do I want that chance of having her wake up soon? Yes. What if she doesn't and the boy dies without ever having had a chance? How will my daughter feel about this when she wakes up? Am I that powerful and strong to deny another life when the one that is shouldn't be? Will I be able to live with the guilt either way?
I can hear monitors beeping, nurses walking, vending machines clink. And I sit staring at the blank white walls, waiting for some sign of superior intervention. I get none. I must make a decision.
I nod. I nod furiously now. She can have her son. I will have my daughter's memory. I will forever regret the decision and base it on what if, but at least I can take comfort in the way his eyes would hold mine- with life.
So sad. 'They want my approval' made me cringe.
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