Flatline is not a good hospital term. When the hospital called a Code for their best medical response team yesterday in the Children's Hospital on the floor below us, my heart grieved for both mother and child.
The familiar fear that runs through your veins when everything is out of control and permanency weighs dangerously unbalanced.
I prayed for the presence and intervention of a team of angels. Not the medical response kind.
We are home again, thank God.
Going through the discharge process last night, the nurse whispered telling me that Brooke was really hungry in the morning, that she offered to call in Brooke's breakfast order if she wasn't comfortable in doing so, but Brooke said that she would wait for me.
[Me, I'm across town swimming through muck trying to get to her, I knew she needed me.
She lit up when I walked in the room in smiling glory with my arms filled with flowers, her backpack and her comfy clothes.
Immediately, I ordered her breakfast.]
The nurse was telling me that she knew Brooke was hungry but she refused to order and eat until I got there.
She wanted me to know and said that her personality was flatline'd and she couldn't believe how Brooke's entire disposition awakened with my presence.
I smiled.
That is called separation anxiety.
I am well aware.
