Another essay pulled from the shelf. This was written about my daughter in 2005.

It’s just after 5:30 on Halloween. I should be home getting my kids ready to go trick-or-treating. Instead, I’m on the seventh floor of the children’s hospital, listening to various machines hum and beep. My daughter was rushed here by ambulance yesterday morning with a severe asthma attack. She’s better today than she was yesterday, and she’s even starting to regain some of her sarcastic humor, so I know she’s feeling better.

Being in the hospital is never a good experience, but being in the children’s hospital on a holiday is surreal. They had a parade today on the floor. Doctors and nurses dressed in costumes walked beside children of various ages and in various conditions, and tried to make it festive. They invited my daughter several times, but she decided to watch from her bed. She’s being a good sport about missing all the fun. Her siblings and cousins promised to save lots of candy. I think she knows she’s just not up to it.

Her dad came to visit today so I had a chance to go outside for a minute. I’ve been struggling to keep things together in front of my daughter, so a few minutes alone was a blessing. As I sat on the curb of the parking lot, I saw a swarm of ladybugs. Really odd for almost November, but I decided to take it as a good sign.

We’re not going home tonight. We might be able to go home tomorrow, but everything depends on my daughter being able to breathe freely for extended periods of time without the huge doses of meds she’s on. Hopefully tomorrow will bring good news. We’re both ready to go home.

Michele Vecchitto