A buzz and a click; the door opens and closes. The ward is quiet and the lights are low. The children are sleeping, the night shift now doing their rounds, checking observations, peering at charts. It’s warm and he’s wearing just his nappy, the rising and falling of his little chest a bit too laboured still. Her fingers brush the side of the cot, where the IV tube protrudes between the bars, a single red line carrying his blood into the machine he still needs to stay alive.
She bends over the cot and watches him. His eyelids flutter as he dreams. His fingers curl and uncurl next to the blue bunny that he’s still too weak to grip. He’s a beautiful child; there’s no doubt about that. She leans forward and strokes back the shock of blond hair that’s damp against his forehead, then lifts him gently into her arms, careful not to dislodge the tube that’s taped to his chest. She holds him for a moment, feeling the weight of his head against her forearm, breathing in his sweet baby scent, before laying him gently back down.
He hasn’t stirred. He won’t wake. His face is peaceful, his features relaxed. Her eyes flicker down to the clover-shaped sticking plaster that’s holding the tube in place just underneath his left armpit. Her fingers reach over and feel for its rough edges where they meet the softness of his baby skin. Her fingernail picks at the tape and peels it back a little, then a little more, until it comes away. She tugs at the end of the tube and places it on the sheet beside him. A small crimson stain soon appears.
It’s time to leave him now, to let him sleep.
She covers him with the blanket that’s folded neatly on top of the cabinet next to his cot and walks silently away.