I torture myself with thoughts of my life without Emmy, with memories of her most precious moments, with questions about her recent fixation on me being happy without her.  Could she somehow have seen this in her future?  Could she somehow have known that God would take her from me?

The thought sends me into silent sobs that wrack my entire body. From my perch beside Emmy’s stretcher, I fold over at the waist, pressing my forehead to hers, fighting off the hopelessness and nausea that pulls threateningly at my insides.  She’s not dead, I remind myself.  And she’s not going to be. Her heart is beating now.  Her chest is pumping with her rapid, shallow breaths.  Those are signs of life.  Life.  She can still make it.

 “Emmy, it’s Momma,” I whisper, smoothing the backs of my fingers down her cold cheek.  “You are strong, baby. So strong.  You have to fight to stay with me.  Listen to my voice.  Feel me touching you.  Know how much you are loved.  More than any little girl in the whole world.  We have too much left to do, sweetpea.  We have sandcastles to build, stories to read, cartoons to watch.  And Christmas will be here soon.  I have so many things for you.  I want to watch you open all your presents,” I tell her, thinking that I will buy her the moon if she’ll just come back to me.  “Breathe, baby.  Breathe and heal, get warm and cozy, and then you come back to me, okay?  Okay, Emmy?”

Tears drip from my lashes into her damp hair.  I would give her my blood if it would help, my life if she could use it.  If she’ll just wake up and ask me for it, I’ll give her anything her heart desires.  Anything.  Anything at all for my little girl.

⌘⌘⌘⌘

They let me stay in the corner of the emergency room bay as they work on my daughter.  I’m relieved when I hear things like “sinus rhythm” and “clear lungs” and “core temp is rising.”  They toss back and forth a thousand terms that I don’t understand as they hover over my daughter’s still body.  All I can do is watch.  And listen.  And pray.

When she is declared stable, the doctor comes to talk to me.  I give him my attention in a way that reminds me of watching a television show–thinking with only half of my brain and listening with ears that hear as though I’m standing at the other end of a tunnel.

I struggle to process what he’s saying, latching onto bits and pieces here and there.

Dry near drowning. 

Hypothermia. 

It doesn’t appear she was submerged very long.

Her body slowed blood flow to her limbs first.

Arrhythmia.

Perfusion.

Oxygenation.

Compromised.

Reacting as you did probably saved her life.

Breathing on her own now.

The next eight hours are critical.

Pediatric intensive care.

Talk to her.

Hope she regains consciousness soon.

Take you upstairs with her.

I thank him.

I think.

Calls are made.  Report is given.  The same keywords used.

A nurse dressed in all blue asks me to come with her.  She and another nurse wheel Emmy to the elevators. I follow along behind them.

She’s taken to the pediatrics wing and we walk along a hall painted in soothing greens and yellows, and bordered with bears dancing on big red balls.  I glance in each door that we pass. I see exhausted parents, some crying, some not as they watch their critical children sleep. They vary in age, the children, but the one constant is in the eyes of their parents.  Dejection.  Desperation.  Frantic worry.  It’s there in every room, hovering like an unwanted guest.

We turn into the room that will be Emmy’s.  They ask me to have a seat in the chair in the corner as they move my unconscious child into a different bed and transfer her various tubes and cords to another monitoring station.

When the commotion dies down, I’m left with one nurse, probably ten years my senior. She approaches me with a kind smile, squatting down at my side as she speaks.

“May I call you Eden?”  she asks.  I nod.  “Alright then, Eden, I’m Vera.  I’ll be watching over Emmy tonight.  Would you like to come and tell me about her?”

I do. I walk with Vera to Emmy’s bedside and I tell her all about my child as she assesses her from head to toe, gently uncovering small sections of her body as she checks things and then covering them back up.  She asks me questions, questions that one mother might ask another.  Questions that bring tears to my eyes and panic to my heart.  This can’t be it for my Emmy.  It just can’t be.

With Emmy covered and settled in her cheerful room, one soft light shining over the corner where I’ll be sitting, Vera takes my hand.  “She’s going to be fine, Eden. You just spend your time talking to her, being comfort and strength to her.  I’ll take care of the rest.  Can I get you anything?  Something to eat or drink? Coffee?”

She must know that I won’t be sleeping.  I nod. “That would be great, thank you.”

She squirts some antibacterial foam in her hand as she approaches the door, and then turns to me again.  “Is there someone I can call for you?  Anyone that you’d like to be here? For you or for Emmy?”

She’s asking about her father.

But I’m thinking of Cole.

Cole.

My heart, my battered, tattered, aching heart squeezes at the mention of his name.  It slips off my tongue like a plea.  “Cole,” I tell her. “Cole Danzer will probably be here soon.”  How long has it been since Emmy and I left the house in the ambulance?  How long has it been since he said he’d be right behind us?

Another shot of panic wrecks my chest, sending bone and blood spraying.  What if…?  I suck in a breath and hold it to still the throbbing of my insides.

Please God, don’t let him be hurt.  I couldn’t take anything more right now.  Nothing more.  Please.

“I’ll send word to the ER waiting room. He’ll probably show up there first.”

I try to smile. I’m not sure how effective my efforts are.  “Thank you.”

She nods.  “Of course. I’ll be right back with your coffee.”

As soon as the door is closed, I head for Emmy’s bed. I perch one hip on the edge of the mattress. “Emmy, it’s me,” I announce quietly.

I listen for a response. Anything.  A word, a moan, a whimper. I hear nothing but the soft whir of the Bear Hugger machine that pumps warm air into the plastic blanket that rests between her skin and the cloth ones.

“Can you open your eyes and look at me, baby?”  I try to keep my voice steady, even though it wants to tremble. As does my chin.  But I hold back the shaking and the tremors, the tears and the sobs. I want to wake her up, not scare her.

“Emmmy.  Emmmmaline Saaaage,” I say in a sing-song voice.  “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

She doesn’t stir.  I reach under the covers and take her slowly-warming hand, stroking each tiny finger from base to tip, massaging them, trying to help coax blood back into them.

I start to hum her favorite song. It’s from a cartoon that she loves. She always sings along to it when it comes on, and then again when it goes off.  I stop every few bars to speak her name. To tell her I love her. To ask her to open her eyes.

I smell the coffee before I hear Vera bringing it in.  But when I turn to thank her, it isn’t Vera holding the steaming cup. It’s Cole.

He’s pale.  His hair is mussed like his run his fingers through the longish locks a thousand times.  His eyes are flat when they meet mine.

“Is it okay that I’m here?” he asks, his voice a low, soothing balm to my frazzled nerves.

I nod, unable to form the words that would tell him how very grateful I am that he came when he did tonight, that he helped me find my daughter, that he helped save her life.