I Watch Her Breathe
We have no idea what made her wake up screaming like that. Pain? Trouble breathing? Night terrors? Not a clue.
She was laying in bed between us when it happened because she had already had a restless night and I couldn’t get her settled into her crib. I had just dozed off when the scream sent me into panic mode.
Glenn turned on the lights. Her color was fine — no blue lips, fingers or toes. She wasn’t indicating any pain or discomfort. Just a blood curdling scream and some heavier breathing.
Afterwards she was restless, and her breathing was more labored than usual for a bit. But eventually she calmed back down into a more restful sleep.
Now I can’t sleep. So I’m sitting here watching her breathe. Willing her to be okay. Praying that it was just a night terror and nothing related to her heart or disorganized organs.
She’s been restless at night for a week or two now. It makes me nervous that something is wrong. So I was already on edge before the scream tonight.
I watch her breathe a lot. I always have. Probably always will. Sometimes it’s in awe of her strength. Sometimes it’s out of fear (like tonight.) Sometimes it’s with immense gratitude that she is breathing at all.
Watching the rise and fall of her scarred chest is all at once a source of anxiety and a comfort to me. It’s a strange paradox.
And so here I’ll sit, until exhaustion gets the best of me, watching her breathe as she sleeps.