three - a blessing in disguise
contrary to popular belief, a miracle is not gifted; a miracle is earned.

☆☆☆

Four hours, three mental breakdowns, and twelve cups of coffee later, a doctor finally comes to get Ana, Callie and me from the waiting room. As soon as the doctors had wheeled Delilah into the emergency room, they told Ana and me that we had to stay in the waiting room because we couldn't be near Delilah during her stay in the emergency room. As soon as the doctors said this, I knew Ana would burst in a matter of seconds; so, before she could say or do anything, I wrapped my arms around her as tightly as I could and said, "Please, save my daughter..." before literally dragging a sobbing and shaking Ana away from her daughter. Out of all the moments in my life, seeing my family completely torn apart like this may be the worst of them.

As for the return of Callie, she arrives roughly half an hour or so later along with both sets of her grandparents, sobbing hysterically and screaming her sister's name repeatedly. After an hour or two of her seemingly perpetual tantrum, six different types of chocolate bars, and the collective help of me, Ana, my parents, and Ana's parents, Callie is finally lulled to sleep. Her flaccid limbs lay motionless, splayed in an awkward manner across my lap as theman before us, cloaked head to toe in white,begins to speak.

"I have good news, and bad news," he says in somewhat of a monotone, "but the question is, which one would you like to hear first?"

Bad news, he has bad news! Oh God, what could've happened to her in that room? I think, Oh God, oh God, oh God, this can't be happening! This must be a dream, wake up!

Before I can open my mouth to utter a single syllable, Ana replies with a swift, "Good news, please." The doctor feigns the biggest smile that he can possibly have left to give, before saying, "Good news! Your daughter is alive, and relatively well."

The relief shooting through my veins at that very moment in time was almost to the point of unfathomable— my daughter is alive. My daughter is alive and she is well. I still have a chance at being her father; God helped me to keep my promise. I quickly glance over at Ana to catch her reaction, only to be met with a teary-eyed mother enveloping me in the biggest, most passionate hug she can possibly summon, her tears of elation wetting my shirt. I reach down into my lap to shake Callie awake, telling her, "Guess what, Callie! Delilah is alive! We'll be able to see her soon!"

Callie looks up at me with an awestruck expression displayed upon her usually placid features, unable to speak for a second or two, before giving me and Ana the liveliest and most jubilant smile she can give us. She appears to be physically incapable of containing her elation and joy for her sister's life. "Delilah! Delilah!" Callie tries to yell, but due to her young age, she can't properly pronounce the l's. It sounds something like, "Da-why-wah! Da-why-wah!" instead.

Ana gives a smile twice as big as Delilah's, her teeth practically glowing in the bright hospital lighting. I can't help but to smile along with her, for her smile may be one of the most contagious out of all the smiles. "When can we see her?" Ana asks, looking up at the doctor with an immeasurable amount of hope glimmering behind her periwinkle eyes.
The doctor's smile almost immediately drops at this question. "That's the bad news— you can't see her yet. Not awake, at least."

My smile completely collapses at this statement and I feel my hands and feet starting to numb. "What is that supposed to mean?" I ask, adding, "When can I see my daughter again?"
The doctor gives a semi-dramatic sigh before beckoning us to follow him to his office, promising us that it will all be explained in there. My fatherly instincts all flare up simultaneously, telling me that something is wrong; so terribly wrong. I pick Callie up from off of my lap and tenderly set her down on the waiting room tile, soon following a pathetic attempt to get myself up off of the chair I've been cemented to for the past half hour or so. The room is tilting intensely, causing me to stagger every time I attempt to upright myself into a semi-normal standing position. After many attempts at standing normally, Ana's and my parents walk into the waiting room with multiple cups of coffee and rush to help me up. My parents help me catch up with my wife and child, while Ana's parents hold the cups of coffee for us when we get back.

After a few minutes of walking and numerous instances of tripping, my parents and I make it to the room where Ana and Callie are. They all stare at me as if they'd been waiting for me for hours on end, even though I know that it couldn't have been less than two minutes total. The doctor asks me if I'm okay and if I need to see a doctor, but I quickly dismiss the idea of seeking medical attention for myself when my daughter is in such need of it herself. My mom and dad help me into a cushiony, azure rolling chair, which I gladly sink far into. They wave goodbye and promptly leave the room.

Out of all the things a doctor might say to start off a conversation with the distressed parents of a nine-year old in the hospital, I certainly would never have started off as he did:
"Your daughter, Delilah, has a very rare disease that has no real cure, as it is extremely unknown to us medical professionals. It's classified as 'Plumo-Turgescence,' but we prefer to call it by its more known name— the Bronchiole Syndrome."

As soon as the the phrase "no real cure" escapes the doctor's mouth, all the weight that has been hanging over my head for the past few hours comes crashing down in a wave of lost hope; along with it, the agonizing feeling of guilt of having lied to her, of having promised her that it would turn out alright. The knowledge that my daughter would never be able to recover from this blow makes my stomach churn and my vision blur. My trembling hands grasp those of my wife, and for the first time on this fateful Winter night, I let a few tears slowly start to trickle out of the corners of my eyes. They burn my rosy cheeks as they slowly roll down, but the burning of my cheeks doesn't nearly compare to the burning in my heart.

"The Bronchiole Syndrome is, put simply, a disease caused by spirilla bacteria that infect the bronchioles," he says, but stops short in his sentence when he looks down at Callie who wears a somewhat perplexed expression, continuing with, "Uh... sweetie, do you know what lungs are? Or at least how you breathe?"

Callie eagerly nods her head yes, and he sighs with relief before attempting to explain this in a kid-friendly way to her, "Basically, when you breathe air into your lungs, it travels down these tiny tubes into tinier tubes that help you with gas exchange, or that help you to breathe properly. But, when these tiny bacteria invade the tinier tubes, or as doctors call them, bronchioles—"

He stops for a minute to draw a picture of lungs, and then to draw these spiral-shaped lines along the sides of the chalkboard that resemble how Callie used to draw hair. Callie looks up at him again, puzzled, and he clenches his teeth before attempting to explain again. "So... uh... when these little spiral things, or spirilla, try to hurt the bron— er, tinier tubes, the body naturally wants to fight back. Understand?" the doctor asks. Callie nods her head yes, allowing him to continue.

"As for why we know it's bacteria causing the infection, the medical researchers helping to research this disease have learned how to culture it, or grow it. They first find this little tray to help them grow the pathogen, or petri dish. Then, they pour this liquid called "agar" into the petri dish, which just helps the pathogen to grow, and put the pathogen onto the agar. After that, the researchers put it into a little oven, or incubator, to help it grow, and it results in the bacteria growing. Understand?"
Callie looks incredibly lost in his string of unknown words, but nods her head yes anyway. She knows more about these topics than most girls of her age, merely because of my position as a medical researcher, but no girls of seven years would be able to understand this. Hoping to help her understand the matter a bit more, I lean over to Callie and whisper in her ear, "It's like when papa puts the blue bowls in his oven at work." This seems to clear up all of her former confusion, for she looks at me wide-eyed and smiling with her new knowledge. This almost makes me smile in return.
Almost.

"After a few different times of experimenting, the results were pretty similar, all looking something like this..." the doctor adds, erasing the first picture and drawing yet another picture of the petri dish.

"Now comes the more unfortunate part of Delilah's case. There are the common symptoms of this disease, such as random instances where gas exchange can't occur, an overall harder time breathing, and lightheadedness, but there are also less common symptoms of the disease that your daughter has unfortunately come into contact with. About eight percent of the patients diagnosed with Plumo-Turgescence slip into a coma from brain damage stemming from oxygen loss, and Delilah was unfortunately included in that eight percent."
The doctor's words from earlier ring in the back of my head, taunting me in some infuriating way unbeknownst to me until now. You can't see her, yet. Not awake, at least.
So this is what he meant.

"A... a coma?" Ana asks, still uncertain as to if the doctor is being serious. He solemnly nods his head in response, pity shimmering behind his glassy, grey eyes. "I know this sounds cliché, and probably won't mean anything at all, but I truly am sorry. For everything."
So am I.

"Since this disease has no real antibiotic due to its rareness— one of the rarest diseases out there, may I add, affecting only about one-thousand people per year— she will be stuck with the Bronchiole Syndrome for her life, until a cure or antibiotic is found. And, to add on to the unpleasantness circumstances— she could quite possibly die from an unexpected swelling of the bronchioles. Her immune system is doing all it can to fight it off, but it's still too weak. I wish we could do something more, I really wish we could, but all we can do is keep her stable in her coma and give her white blood cell supplements to help fight off the disease. Oh, I almost forgot to ask you: was your daughter given any injections in the past week or so?"
Ana and I look at each other uncertainty, both feeling sick to our stomachs. I know what she's thinking. I can't lose my baby. She knows what I'm thinking. I can't lose my Lovely.
Oh, Lord, don't let her be lost.

"Y-Yeah..." Ana replies, "Last week we took her in to get her flu shot. Why do you ask?" The doctor looks at us suspiciously, before pointing at Callie and adding, "Did she use the same needle?"

I can tell that Ana is beginning to catch on, for she replies with, "No, that would be unsanitary and could lead to possible disease outbreaks... wait, is this how Delilah contracted the disease? Did someone else give it to her through the needle?"

"We suspect that to be the case, yes. The incubation period for Plumo-Turgescence is one week, which aligns perfectly with your story, and the disease is spread through exchange of bodily fluids, which also aligns with your story. Again, we're not sure if this is the cause, but it looks to be. Basically, the disease that Delilah has been diagnosed with attacks the respiratory system, specifically the bronchioles, causing the body to send all of the white blood cells to the bronchioles to help fight it off. Lots of blood comes with these white blood cells, causing the bronchioles to slightly enlarge. But, when too many white blood cells are sent to fight the bacteria, they begin to swell up, therefore preventing any gas exchange from occuring. Obviously, this gas exchange is important because you can't inhale oxygen or exhale carbon dioxide without gas exchange occurring, which means you can't breathe, and the inability to breathe isn't particularly good, so to speak."

"That's... that's horrible!" Ana protests, her eyes wide due to bewilderment and her mouth slightly agape due to fury, "How 'new' is this disease, and why isn't there a cure for it yet?"

"Miss, I'm very sorry that there is no cure, but we will do everything we can to sustain her life. As for the newness of this disease, the first recorded case was in March of 2016, up in Maine. There are recorded cases in both eastern U.S. and southeastern Canada, but no cases elsewhere. As I said before, it only affects one thousand people per year," he tells, but hesitates before giving us this last bit of information, "And, one last thing that you might want to know as parents... the mortality rate of this disease is one hundred percent, as in there are no survivors that we know of. This disease is being researched as we speak, and will continue to affect us if we are not careful. Oh, and as for the immune response... her immune system works almost too well, so to speak. The immune system is sending so many white blood cells to fight against the pathogens, but that means the bronchioles constantly swell. Obviously, her hair, cilla, and mucus are working to trap pathogens as well, but sometimes a working immune system and healthy body just aren't enough. I'm so sorry, once again. If you need me, my name is Doctor Gared; feel free to ask for me at any time. I'll leave you here for a few minutes now to take in all the information, please make yourselves at home. As for Delilah, you are free to visit her starting tomorrow morning at eight. Good night, and best of wishes."

I see Ana's mouth move, asking me if I want to leave, but no sound enters my buzzing ears. I shake my head no, whispering to her to take Callie and leave me here. "Come back at eight tomorrow," I quietly add. Or maybe I'm shouting it; I don't know. I can't hear, I can't think, I can't speak, I can't feel. All I can do is watch from afar, like watching a movie play in the movie theatre; predicting what will happen next but never really knowing, never really being able to tell. Well, in this case, I know what is going to happen, as it's inevitable, but I'd like to think it will never happen. I'd like to think that my daughter will be okay. I wish that I can make her okay.

Wait... what if you can make her okay? my brain nags, You're a medical researcher for Heaven's sake! Do your job!

I can do this, I can save her! I can save my daughter! I can find a cure! I can keep my promise. She will be okay, maybe even more than okay. Maybe even alright, maybe even great!

And with that, I run outside to my car to get my laptop. This truly is a blessing in disguise.

a/n
woah science crap

woo fixed the italics

thank you Drapus and flirtingly for being so supportive I LOVE YOU this chapter is dedicated to you

imma go start my 100 point geography thing that's due tomorrow bye guys i love you i'll publish the rest tomorrow!!!

word count: 2727