Some prick of a neurologist will tell me that my baby is brain dead and I will hate that man forever because of it. I will wait to have someone wheel his body off to harvest his organs. My heart aches with a deep despair and my eyes sting with the promise of tears not yet cried.
I want to hold on to him.
There is a smell that patients get when they are gravely ill, in ICU. I smell it over the chlorine. I hear the beeps, the psht…psht…psht of the ventilator instead of the splashing of water and squeals of joy. I can feel his tiny lifeless hand. It used to squeeze mine…
“Mommy! Watch me!”
I want to follow him to the deep end. I want to keep a hold…
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