The nurse gently pulled me aside, away from the metal crib, away from my baby. She held me in her arms as another nurse examined Angie. I watched her reach over the crib and shut off the monitor. The arms around me squeezed tighter.
The other nurse turned away from the crib and faced me. "It's over," she whispered, her cheeks wet with tears. "I'm so sorry."
The memory of Angie's pale face remains with me today. She was just 11 months old, a victim of cancer. Angie's father, my estranged husband, was attending college in another state. The lonely two-week vigil beside her crib left me dazed and numb.
I pulled away from the comforting arms around me and wandered, looking for a place to grieve. I don't know who called my pastor, Jon, and his wife, Linda. They found me in the sun room on the top floor of the hospital. I stared out the window, not blinking, not thinking, not feeling.
Linda embraced me as Jon paced the floor. Just one month earlier he had held Angie in his arms at a church service, ...1
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