Please Don't Forgive Me

“I want to see her,” I whispered to Garrett. “I want to see our daughter.” He nodded reluctantly and called a nurse in so that they’d bring me a wheelchair. I personally thought I was quite capable of walking on my own; I was the only one.

“You’re sure you wanna do this?” he asked before opening the door to the NICU. “If you don’t, Anika, I’m sure everyone would understand. You don’t have to do this.” I shook my head back and forth quickly.

“I have to do this Garrett. I have to at least see her.” He nodded and pushed the door open.

“Just,” he began, but trailed off. “Just prepare yourself mentally.” I nodded and squeezed his hand.

She was laying quietly in the incubator; all kinds of wires protruding from her small, fragile body. Her skin was translucent and her eyes were slits. “She’s beautiful,” I smiled looking at him.

“Yeah,” he smiled sadly. “She’s beautiful, just like her mom.” I smiled and put a finger through the hole in the side. It came as a surprise to me that she grabbed onto me. I didn’t think she could.

“Look, Garrett,” I smiled, “she’s holding onto me.” He stood to my side with his arms on my shoulders, rubbing up and down to soothe me.

“Just like you hold onto me,” he smirked. But then it became all too clear how much she really was like me. Her grip on my finger loosened and her hand slipped away from mine. The monitor started going off like crazy and a bunch of doctors and nurses rushed into the room. They shooed us out of the way and I ushered Garrett into the hallway. I wanted to cry, but I knew I couldn’t.

“Garrett,” I whispered trying to gain his attention. “Garrett, listen to me. She’ll pull through. She has to.” His jaw tightened and his body stiffened.

“She’s exactly like you, you know.” I smirked in spite of myself and looked at the ground.

“I know. I did the same thing to you. I squeezed your hand and I let myself go.” He sighed loudly as I took his hand. He looked down at our interlaced hands and focused on mine as if it were so fragile that it might break just from his touch. “But I came back Garrett. And she will too.”

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When we finally told us that she would be okay the news was bittersweet. Her heart was weak; her entire life was so fragile. They didn’t see any signs of brain damage, but her kidneys could end up being an entirely different story. She would probably need a heart transplant before she was in her thirties, but at least she was alive.

“When can we take her home?” Garrett asked softly. “When can we bring her home, where she belongs?” We were informed that it wouldn’t be today, tomorrow, the next day, or probably days after that.

“It’ll be alright,” I soothed. “We can get through this. She’s our little miracle and we will love her no matter what life dishes out.”

“How can I ever leave on a tour again and not know if she’ll be okay when I get home? If I leave again it’ll make me a horrible father.”

“Now, Garrett, it won’t. She is our daughter; she’ll understand. And by God, she’ll be fine. She’ll be healthy. She’ll be okay.” We held each other in a long embrace and cried. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.