Jack and Diane

They say some children were born simply to pass on to the spirit world to become angels. That, dear reader, is complete bullshit.

On the second day of my daughter's coma, I met Diane*. We sat outside, right beside each other because subconsciously we needed physical closeness with someone who felt the same grief as the other. We did nothing but cry, hunched shoulders touching ever so slightly. Diane's daughter was two, the same age as mine. She had blonde curly hair, as did mine. Her daughters favorite movie was Curious George. On and on were the similarities, until we began to care for each others children. Diane had a husband named Jack. He was at least 6'5" and when he gave his wife a hug he was so tender, and the grief in his eyes so apparent, that it made me cry. Such a terminal illness for such a very special little girl.

She was on an oscillator because her lungs were killing her. She was afflicted with Fibrosing Mediastinitis, causing her lungs to turn fibrous, and as a result, slowly suffocating her. Diane's daughter was not supposed to live past six months, as she was born with the bottom right lobe of her lung already damaged. She lived to two years and three months old.

When I met Diane, we didnt talk for the first two times we saw each other in the smoking area. I would sit beside her, or vice versa, and we would give each other watery smiles that said simply "I know." What we both instinctively knew was that we both had children that almost didn't make it through the night, and we had seen each other thrown out of their childs ICU room because of one or the other going completely unstable and as a result, almost dying. On the third day, when we were both able to talk without breaking down into tears, we introduced ourselves, told our stories, and shared the heartbreak and fear of losing a child. When our husbands were in the rooms we would go downstairs and have a cigarette, or walk to the restaurant around the corner to get something to eat.

For two and a half weeks we used each other as a sounding board, and talked about everything from the best position to sleep on the pull-out sofa to the best moisturizer to use because of the dry hospital air. We went outside and yelled about stupid nurses, bad interns, cute residents, and everything else hospital related. We never spoke of going home, because underneath it all, I knew that with any luck my daughter would come out of that hospital, but Diane's very well might not.

Then one morning, Diane and I played dirty scrabble in the waiting room. She laughed and genuinely smiled for the first time. I smiled, and when rounds were over, we went back to our respective rooms. I handed my game to her, and told her to get Jack to play a few rounds. When I got into Meghan's room, they told me it was time to leave the PICU. I spent all day packing our lives back into bags to prepare for our move. When we left, I stopped by Diane's room to tell her "hey, we're going upstairs! I can't believe it! Keep scrabble for the evening, I will come by tomorrow to get it and we'll have coffee. Wish us luck!". She smiled, hugged me, and said "Congratulations! I will see you in the morning, then." That night, when I was playing with my daughter and rocking her to sleep, Diane's daughter passed away. I would have sent flowers, but I never got their last names.