15/06/2026
I sat in that chair again, right beside your bed.
The machines hummed louder than my thoughts, but I still heard every shaky breath you took.🎗
Your hand felt smaller in mine than it did the day before. The IV lines pulled at your skin, and I hated that I couldn’t pull the pain away from you.
I kept counting the rise and fall of your chest, like if I paid enough attention, I could keep you here with me.
The hospital lights never went off, and neither did I.
I watched you fight in your sleep – your brow furrowed, your fingers twitched, and I wondered if you were battling it even in your dreams.
You were so brave, baby, even when your voice was too tired to speak.
I would have traded every breath in my lungs for one of yours to come easy.
I would have sat in that chair forever if it meant you got to walk out of there.
So I stayed. I held your hand. I whispered that you weren’t alone.
And I prayed that the next day the doctor came in, they’d bring better news than the last.
My family was in another province. They were not able to visit us in hospital. The roads were too long, the money was too little, and time never seemed to be enough. The phone calls came, but they could not hold my hand. They could not sit with my daughter while I went to cry in the bathroom. They did not see how small she looked in that big hospital bed.
So it was just me and her. Night after night. I watched the IV drip and pretended I was strong for both of us. I told her stories to drown out the machines. She asked “Mama, when is Gogo coming?” and I had to smile and say “Soon, baby” even when I did not know when soon would be. The silence in that room was heavy. No one checked if we had eaten. No one saw how tired I was.🎗🥹
