When things fell apart they did not drift down slowly like so many leaves on a warm October breeze. Rather they separated, brittle and fragile, in a quick and frightening manner leaving everything else jumbled and confused; minutes, days, and hours running together like so much spilled ink. The echo of those days only scant weeks ago is just a sort of numbness.

I’ve sat down countless times to try and organize my thoughts, to commit something to written word but, inevitably, I abandon the effort out of frustration or exhaustion. Simply put, Gabriella’s birth was traumatic for Management and for myself. Days without sleep for both of us, her in pain, myself gripped with fear sitting by her bed unable to close my eyes. Labor, itself, lasted nearly a full day and only ended when she was whisked away to the operating table when the baby’s heartbeat became so faint that it would disappear with each contraction.

The days following were worse though as the sleeplessness stretched out further and eating became somewhat of a fond memory. My wife saw her body broken, not just from the trauma of the surgery but the labor itself had brought with it injuries that would need weeks to heal. Pain and sadness filled her eyes up until the day she was released. That morning she radiated happiness, filled with joy at starting our lives. It only lasted a handful of hours until it melted away with the palsy that struck late in the morning washing her sense of smell and taste while clouding her vision. The weeks have seen many visits to different doctors, some that poke, others that prod, and still some that stoke impossibly long chins. Answers might be forthcoming or not. Only they know.

The doctor bills are reaching upwards, listing precariously to the left, while the calculator blinks increasingly harsh numbers. Sleep has finally come, if only in fits, and we remember to eat, if only by gulps and handfuls. We are making our way slowly out of this month with each step carrying us closer to being whole and healthy again. When I am at my lowest, and when I’m not sure that I can keep my eyes focused on a point ahead of me I sink my face into my daughter’s neck to breathe deeply. For her we will move on.