The Fourth Floor
A man dressed in black takes my arm and guides me off the elevator. “Get in line, please.”
I step clear and listen as the door slams shut behind me. The lights illuminating the hall of the fourth floor are dimmer than the rest of the hospital. Sinister shadows dance across the walls, and the air is heavy with a feeling of foreboding.
Up ahead, a single file line wraps around the corner. Parents speak of ill and disabled children with fear in their eyes. I can’t say why I’m terrified of this line, but as soon as I step up to it, my heart begins to beat rapidly. My palms start to sweat, and I can’t catch my breath.
“I don’t want to be here,” I cry, tears stinging my eyes. “Please let me take my baby home.”
The man is unaffected by my motherly sobs. “I’m sorry, but you must join the others. When it’s your turn, please follow the man in white.”
I turn to see a young man in flowing robes step up to a young couple. He leads them away as the woman cries hysterically into her husband’s chest.
I cannot watch, cannot breathe as I await my turn.
***
As a parent of a disabled child given a 1 percent chance of survival at birth, I feel like I’m in this single file line with other parents of disabled and ill children. Every code blue, every story of a child’s death I wonder when her time is up. When will the Lord stop in front of me and pick my child?
Not unlike other parents, I fear that every visit to the ER could be her last. But I’m staying strong for her, letting her know it’s going to be okay. As parents, it’s our job to suffer in silence where our children cannot see.