It's 3:55 in the morning and after two hours of sleep, I'm listening to the night and struggling against the sleep that keeps pulling my head back to the pillow. I can feel the cold air on my face, waiting, knowing I will throw those blankets back, to wrap itself around me. The night lights, arrainged to allow quick movement without stumbling, lends an odd glow to the wall. I rise up and walked the twelve steps across the hall to her room, lean against the door jam and wait. The dark figure lying on her side in the hospital bed doesn't move. I wait. Nothing. The top of the blankets make an uneven shadowy line on the wall behind her and by it I can measure the rise and fall of her breathing. Still nothing. I wait. She had always had a slow heart beat and breathing rate so I wait longer. Nothing. It has been too long, she should have taken a breath by now. The terrible feeling climbs into my throat, hated for it's implications, and knowing nothing can stop it, I fight the thought that it has come to this at last. The blankets do not move. My heart starts beating faster and the shaking inside begins as I stare intently at the blankets. Nothing. Not now, I think, not tonight, let there be some warning so her kids can be with her. Nothing. Steeling myself and forcing myself upright from the door jam, I start to move forward and then it comes, the deep breath, the long sigh. I pause to let myself settle then move forward again to slide my hand under the covers to make sure she's dry and her feet are warm. She's fine. I return to my room, lie on the bed, throw the covers over me and my last thoughts are that this will happen over and over and over.