Brahms plays softly on the stereo as I sit in a German hospital watching my daughter sleep. The lullaby takes me back 17 years. I remember watching her tiny face, a rosy flush to her cheeks, her thick locks of hair standing on end no matter how many times I smoothed them down. While I rocked her in our creaky old recliner I used to ponder how the love I felt for her broke my heart the way an eggshell shatters when the baby bird bursts through. My heart still breaks with love for Emily as I watch her sleep. My heart breaks again at the grief I see and hear in the hospital when I look up. It’s heavy, a sodden winter coat. Tear rivers tracing laugh lines. Sobs smothered in pillows. German words I can’t understand thrown against the walls where they bounce and echo. Pain needs no translation. Yet, more than anything it needs someone to understand. I understand/Jill Barville, SR. More here.
Question: Has a loved one of yours ever become seriously ill in another country?