My heart stopped. The world around me seemed to tilt violently on its axis. My mother was standing there, handing me a weapon that could destroy the remnants of my life, just as my wife and daughter hung onto existence by a literal thread upstairs.
My hand trembled as it hovered over the envelope. Did I open it? Did I trust the woman who gave me life, or the woman who was currently fighting for hers?
Before my fingers could touch the paper, the emergency double doors burst open again. A red alarm light began flashing above the NICU wing down the hall, accompanied by a loud, rhythmic blaring sound. A nurse sprinted past us, her face pale with panic.
“Code Blue! NICU Bed 4! We’re losing her!”
Bed 4. That was my daughter’s bed.
I looked at the envelope in my mother’s hand, then down the hallway where a team of doctors was rushing into the intensive care unit. The choice before me was a chasm of pure horror, and the truth was about to tear everything apart.
