I think the reason is because when illness comes to me or my family, it likes to come in a big, bad way.
It’s the black cloud of luck we cannot escape.
I hear her cough and cough and cough and wheeze and cry without sound and it hurts my soul.
It hurts because there isn’t anything I can do to fix it.
I can’t put a band-aid on her lungs or kiss it to make it feel better.
Just one week after she was born.
And now she’s slowly having the life stolen from her as well.
But that doesn’t stop me from being completely terrified in the same way I was when I struggled to breathe in a chaotic hospital room while dozens of doctors tried to figure out what was wrong with me.