Fever, Day Five

So today the doctor put a catheter in you and said, once it was in, that then your crying helped, it made the process faster. Daddy and I stood near your head. I held your face so close I could smell my own breath.

While we waited for results Daddy read a magazine with NFL on the front and you slid the face of the fireman upward to reveal the firetruck.

Your smooth bare legs are almost exactly the length of my thighs. Your toenails are small and jagged. The doctors still don't know what's wrong.

Probably a virus. But also if it gets worse we should take you directly to Children's Hospital in Minneapolis where they specialize in taking blood from the veins of babies who are toeing the death-line.

Last night we rearranged the furniture. Luxy now sleeps below a shelf of plants, giving her the appearance of a jungle animal. Then we ate spicy nacho Doritos and watched "The Young Victoria." When Prince Albert died, Victoria continued to lay his clothes out every morning. For the rest of her life, for 43 years, she did this. It makes me sad to think of all those empty shirts waiting for a body to fill them.

This morning, after we gave you Ibuprofen, you had a bit of your usual spunk back--wrinkling your nose and smiling, swirling your fingers through Luxy's water dish, attempting transport the word "hot" from the back of your brain to the outskirts of your lips. And I realized as I watched you do these things how much I've missed you this last week. I keep remembering your infant days, back when you were just a small, sweet body, back before we really knew you. Sickness brings forth these same sweet infant tendencies--nursing round the clock, falling asleep in our arms, burrowing into our necks--but now we also feel the absence of you--your sass, your spunk, your curiosity, your constant motion. Each day you arrive more fully within yourself, and with each day your absence becomes that much more unthinkable. Be well soon, darling girl.