Zack

Its hard to keep track of time here. I think it’s been four days since we came to the hospital, but everything blurs together. I keep watching the machines in Zack's  room, as if by staring at them I can make sure he’s okay. It’s so strange how quickly the sight of tubes and monitors has become normal, though I’ll never get used to the beeping. Every little sound makes my heart skip. Zack is handling all of this far better than I would have expected—maybe even better than I am. He  doesn't like the food  (can’t blame him!). The chairs in this room feel like they’re made of bricks, and the hallway outside his door seems to be a motorway for medical carts all night. It’s noisy and cold, but at least it’s warm next to him. The doctors are reassuring, but I don’t think they realize how hard it is for a parent to hear words like “monitoring” and “observation.” Every phrase feels like it’s coated in medical caution. Today, though, they said there’s a good chance we could g...