Hospital stay 3 million

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 go home soon. I felt like I could finally breathe again when I heard that.

I can’t believe how much these nurses do, constantly moving from room to room. And they still manage to smile and chat with Zack , making him laugh even when he’s scared or uncomfortable.

When I left for just a minute to get some fresh air, I felt guilty. But I needed it. I sat on the bench outside, closed my eyes, and felt the wind on my face. I think I took ten deep breaths before I even realized it. Just that little break made me feel human again.

Tonight, I’m staying by his side, of course. I’ll probably keep my hand near him all night, feeling his breaths, listening for any change. I know he’s strong and brave, and I just keep telling myself that he’s going to be fine. That he’s going to come out of this strong as ever.

 All I want is to see him healthy, running around at home, fighting with his sister and brother over silly things . That’s all I want.

For now, I’ll be right here with him.