For 47 days, I learned the vocabulary of alarms. Bradycardia. Apnea. Desat. I learned that a baby can wear a diaper the size of a Post-it note. I learned that hope is a tiny, stubborn thing—a flutter of an eyelid, a pinkening toe, a nurse’s slight nod when she checks the monitor.
Love comes early. It comes fragile and furious, wrapped in wires and tape, fighting for every breath.
The hospital hallway smelled like hand sanitizer and bad coffee. It was 2:14 a.m. on a Tuesday in late March 2014.
She came twelve weeks early.