The night my son was hooked up to machines, I felt like I was living in two worlds at once. In one, I was a parent, heart pounding, unable to stop staring at the monitors, trying to memorize every beep, every shift in his tiny chest as if committing it to memory could somehow protect him. In the other, I was an employee, fingers flying across a laptop keyboard under harsh fluorescent lights, my back aching, coffee long gone cold beside me. The hospital smelled of antiseptic and worry, the machines humming a rhythm that matched the thrum in my...
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