The ringing phone was shrill, and I lurched for it as if it would wake Lucy. Habit, I guess. "Tracey and John Kwan are here," reported the operator. "Oh. Um. Can you send them to the waiting room?" "Yep, thanks," she chirped, before hanging up. Straightening up, I take in the still jarring sight of my 15-month-old daughter's bloated body, with a tube jutting out of her mouth and hooked to the machine that is breathing for her. Her curly-haired, chubby-cheeked body-a beauty nothing short of breathtaking just a week ago-is now ravaged and unable to take a breath unassisted. There are wires leading to beeping monitors, oozing blisters, and blackening fingertips, and ... it looks like too much to come back from. The bright eyes that held a naughty little spark less than a week ago are closed.
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