By Neely Richer 
My daughter is in the hospital again.
A longer stay this time. I’m tired. I miss my other children. They miss me. I miss my husband. He misses me. Life feels unfair in these moments.
Wearily, I drag myself downstairs to find Chapstick for my lips that dry and crack every time we are inpatient, and a gooey fish toy she wants for her sisters. I keep my head down, not wanting to run into anyone I know in the main lobby because the answer to the “How are you?” question is too hard to come up with.
She is good.
I’m fine.
No, we don’t need anything.
Caleb is good.
The kids are fine.
It feels fake and forced. I don’t believe in my heart what is coming out of my mouth. As night will inevitably fall, morning will come, and another day will pass, it starts to feel so lonely. Yes, we will get past this moment, but we won’t ever move beyond it.
Every stay.
Every jab.
Every poke.
Every test.
Every scan.
It marks me. It changes me. I’m her mom, I’m supposed to make problems go away, and instead, so often I’m the one calling to schedule, I’m the one driving her to the appointment, and I’m the one trying to figure out how to rationalize my “God is good” truth with my “this really sucks” reality.
I step back into the elevator, holding it for the man coming in after me who has so much food and ice cream he is balancing it like a great circus act as he smiles, a huge smile. “Floor 3, please!” I push the button, recognizing its labor and delivery, and say, “New baby?” The new dad, with every ounce of pride, says, “Oh yeah, a boy!! My wife wanted ice cream. We are so excited!”
It’s a short ride; he gets out. So excited, his feet barely hit the carpeted halls of floor 3. That elevator danced with joy and sorrow between two strangers—me, so obviously realizing how joyful and excited he is; him, unknowingly taking part in a conversation with someone who would probably cry on that cold, hard elevator tile, if given the opportunity.
That sting of tears starts to fill the corners of my eye, one hard swallow later, I’m stepping off onto floor 4, back to the room, back to the little girl who needs me to come in with every ounce of joy I have to offer.
Her door opens. “Mommy, did you find another fishy?”
I sure did, babe, isn’t it exciting?!
by Pam Frasco 
