The cardiac monitor’s shrill alarm cuts through the sterile air of the pediatric ICU, its digital display frozen at 00:40:00 – forty minutes without a heartbeat. On the linoleum floor beneath the resuscitation trolley, crimson droplets fan out in delicate tendrils where Zephyr’s nosebleed fell during compressions. His name, typed in bold on the medical chart beside me, shares an eerie kinship with the mythological dictionary entry I’d bookmarked weeks earlier: Zephyrus – Greek god of the west wind, bearer of spring, known for his gentle and ephemeral nature.
Six months have passed since that October morning when my son crossed some invisible threshold between vitality and this suspended state. The numbers on the monitor now show steady rhythms, but the child who returned to us carries only fragments of his former self. His blonde curls have grown past his shoulders, yet he hasn’t reached for a toy since the accident. The pink pram we bought in Valencia gathers dust by the balcony, its warranty tag still dangling – a tangible representation of all the plans we can no longer make.
Medical reports call it ‘hypoxic-ischemic encephalopathy,’ but the truth lives in the minute-to-minute reality: the way his breathing shallows without warning, how his pupils contract just half a second too slowly when I shine my phone’s light to check responsiveness. Our days are measured in millilitres of consumed formula and the duration of eye contact – three seconds yesterday, a personal best since the incident. The neurologist’s words echo: ‘These children exist on a spectrum we’re still learning to map.’
In the quiet hours between midnight medications, I trace the etymology of his name through parenting forums and classical texts. The ancient Greeks believed Zephyrus carried souls between worlds, a psychopomp guiding spirits to their rightful place. Some nights, when his oxygen monitor dips below 90%, I wonder if my son is doing precisely that – lingering in the borderlands while deciding which shore to embrace. The Spanish pediatrician calls it ‘el tiempo de limbo’, her accent softening the clinical term ‘persistent vegetative state’ into something almost poetic.
Valencia’s relentless sun filters through the slatted blinds, casting zebra stripes across the pulse oximeter clipped to Zephyr’s toe. Back in Cardiff, the PICU team warned us about ‘prolonged grief disorder,’ but no pamphlet prepared me for this particular agony – loving a child who is neither fully present nor entirely gone. His occasional finger twitches spark hope like summer lightning, while the untouched stack of 12-18 month onesies in the wardrobe whispers darker possibilities. Between therapy sessions and medication schedules, I’ve developed an involuntary habit: checking his breathing first thing each morning, then consulting the myth compendium – searching for precedents of beings who walked the line between mortal and divine.
The Turia Gardens where we once picnicked with a giggling newborn now serve as our proving ground. Each afternoon, I wheel the pram past orange trees heavy with fruit, watching for any reaction to the citrus scent he loved as an infant. Yesterday, when a sudden breeze stirred his hair, his eyelids fluttered in a way that might have been coincidence or recognition. These are the moments that sustain us – not the dramatic breakthroughs of medical dramas, but subtle tremors of connection in our shared liminal space. As the Spanish neurologist reminds us weekly: ‘El cerebro infantil guarda misterios que ni los dioses comprenden.’ The child’s brain holds mysteries even the gods don’t understand.
On the balcony at dusk, with Zephyr propped against my chest, we watch the star projectors artificial constellations dance across the ceiling. The machine was meant to soothe a healthy baby to sleep; now its LED galaxies illuminate our vigil for signs of returning consciousness. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth rotation of the projected Milky Way, I realize we’ve both become modern versions of mythological figures – my son the boundary-crosser, myself the keeper of thresholds. The cardiac monitor’s steady beep marks time like a metronome, measuring out this new reality where parenting means learning the language of half-presence, where love manifests in counting respirations rather than first steps.
Purple Dawn
The monitor’s shrill alarm still echoes in my bones six months later. That October morning when the numbers flatlined for forty endless minutes marked the day my son Zephyr crossed into this liminal space – not fully alive, yet not surrendered to death. The paramedics’ defibrillator paddles left angry red blooms on his tiny chest, his purple skin mottled like storm clouds over the Bristol Channel we’d walked beside just hours earlier.
Medical Reality vs. Mother’s Perception
When the PICU neurologist said “hypoxic-ischemic encephalopathy,” the clinical term dissolved into visceral images in my mind: his brain like a starved fish gasping in a drained pond. The prognosis checklist – “likely severe cerebral palsy, probable cortical visual impairment, possible seizure disorders” – became a grotesque menu of stolen futures. Yet today, watching sunlight catch the downy hairs on his forearm during morning physiotherapy, I catch myself analyzing the movement: Was that intentional reach or random reflex?
The Artifact of Hope
Three objects from That Day persist in our Valencia apartment like archaeological relics:
- The ambulance EKG strip showing 40:03 of asystole
- His tiny hospital gown with dried nasal blood still crusting the collar
- The Welsh paramedic’s glove left behind in our car, now brittle as autumn leaves
These form our accidental reliquary, though I’ve hidden them behind his current medical binders – a symbolic burial of what was, to make space for what is.
Threshold Guardians
Spanish pediatricians speak of “tiempo de espera” (waiting time) with a philosophical shrug I find both comforting and terrifying. Their approach contrasts sharply with Cardiff’s minute-by-minute neuro checks. Here in Valencia, Dr. Morales measures progress in seasons rather than weeks: “Watch how he turns toward the citrus blossoms in spring – that’s his body remembering life.” I cling to these words during midnight vigils when his oxygen monitor sounds its lonely ping across the darkened bedroom.
Practical Survival Notes
For parents in similar limbo:
- Request color-coded medical reports (highlight urgent items in yellow)
- Create a symptom tracking shorthand (we use weather symbols: ☁️ for drowsy days, ⚡ for seizure activity)
- Designate one notebook as your Hope Log – record even microscopic improvements
Zephyr’s latest entry: May 12 – Gripped rattle for 8 seconds during hydrotherapy. First voluntary grasp since October.
The Myth in the Machine
His name becomes more prophecy than poetry now. Like Zephyrus the west wind, my son exists as gentle breath more than solid form. The ventilator’s rhythmic whoosh mimics ancient Aeolian harps, playing a song only half in this world. Sometimes during his twilight sleep, I whisper Orphic hymns – not to summon him back, but to ask if he’s already begun the journey.
Living in Parentheses
We inhabit medical limbo like a grammatical pause – that tense space between ( ) where meaning hangs suspended. The pink pram we bought during his first Spanish summer now holds oxygen tanks instead of picnic blankets. His “12-18 months” clothes remain tagged, while he wears adaptive onesies sized by weight rather than age. This is parenting in the subjunctive mood: If he grows, when he walks, should he wake.
Bilingual Grief
Navigating two healthcare systems revealed unexpected mercies:
- UK: Immediate crisis support, but rigid prognostic timelines
- Spain: Slower intervention, but embrace of “poco a poco” (little by little) recovery
The contrast taught me to harvest hope differently – not in sweeping medical breakthroughs, but in the millimeter progress of his eyelashes fluttering against my cheek during feedings.
Threshold Rituals
We’ve developed tiny sacraments:
- Morning sunlight baptism (opening blackout curtains gradually)
- Lavender oil anointing before suctioning his trach
- Singing Welsh lullabies during nebulizer treatments
These aren’t just caregiving tasks – they’re incantations against the void, spells to tether him to this shore.
The Gift of Anonymity
Strangers here see only a beautiful blonde baby in his pram, not the medical marvel he represents. Their uncomplicated smiles (“Qué niño tan guapo!”) grant me temporary asylum from pity’s weight. In these moments, we’re just another mother and son enjoying Turia Gardens, not a walking medical case study.
The Paradox of Progress
His milestones now come in negative space:
- Didn’t require suctioning for 72 hours
- No apnea episodes during today’s car ride
- Less nasopharyngeal reflux with new positioning
We celebrate absence as presence, measuring improvement by what doesn’t happen.
The Unanswerable
At night when the oxygen concentrator hums its mechanical lullaby, I trace the questions on his palm:
- Are you dreaming?
- Do you remember the before?
- Is this enough for you?
His fingers curl slightly in sleep – an inkblot answer I can interpret a hundred ways before dawn.
Threshold Objects
The pink pram stands in the corner of our Valencia apartment, its fabric sunshade permanently angled to protect Zephyr from light sensitivity. Six months of daily use have left forensic evidence of our liminal existence – the left handlebar’s rubber grip wears thin where my palm constantly adjusts his oxygen tube, while the right side remains pristine. We’ve added accessories the manufacturer never intended: a pulse oximeter clipped to the canopy frame, emergency suction tubing coiled beneath the seat, medical alert tags dangling from the brake lever.
This pram has become a portable intensive care unit, its cheerful blush-colored fabric belying the life-support equipment it carries. The wheels, once silent on Cardiff hospital corridors, now crunch over Turia Garden’s gravel paths with the same mechanical rhythm as the ventilator keeping time beside our bed. Sometimes when pushing it empty to the pharmacy, I catch strangers smiling at what appears to be a typical baby carriage – their faces shifting when they notice the apnea monitor where a toy mobile should hang.
Archaeology of Joy
On the bookshelf, a row of stuffed animals maintains silent vigil. The gray elephant with crinkly ears bears teeth marks from Zephyr’s first giggles; its fur still indented where tiny fingers grasped during his early alert periods. Next to it, the never-chewed giraffe stares with plastic eyes, its tags intact like museum exhibit labels. I can date each toy to pre- or post-October 19th with forensic precision – the teething rings with sterilizer burns from hospital cleanings, the rattle that spent weeks forgotten in an ambulance bag.
The mobile above his crib spins untouched, its celestial creatures frozen mid-orbit. During his first two months, Zephyr would coo at these spinning stars; now they cast moving shadows across his unblinking eyes. I sometimes wind it just to hear the same lullaby that once made him kick his feet, watching his face for any flicker of recognition. The music box mechanism has developed a hitch on the third note – a flaw that makes each rotation uniquely heartbreaking.
Unopened Futures
In the closet, vacuum-sealed bags of 12-18 month clothing remain stacked like time capsules. These were purchased during that golden September when we naively anticipated normal developmental milestones. The striped romper with matching sunhat still has its Barcelona boutique sticker; the tiny swim trunks I imagined him splashing in at Malvarrosa Beach retain their cardboard price tag shaped like a sailboat.
I’ve developed a ritual of running my hands over these sealed packages every morning, feeling the crinkle of protective plastic beneath my fingertips. The tactile sensation anchors me between two unbearable realities – that opening them means accepting this prolonged intermediate state, while leaving them sealed perpetuates the delusion that someday he might need these clothes for beach outings and playground adventures.
Living Relics
Our apartment has become a museum of almost-was. The high chair purchased during a hopeful week when Zephyr showed interest in purees gathers dust near the kitchen table. Its crumb tray holds only medical supplies now – syringes for liquid medications, a bulb aspirator, packets of thickener for his formula. The baby carrier I wore proudly during our first Spanish holiday hangs limp on its hook, its buckles untouched since the accident.
Even the walls bear witness to our suspended animation. The growth chart beside the bathroom door stops abruptly at 62cm – his length during that final wellness check. Below it, the hospital discharge papers with their clinical terms (‘hypoxic-ischemic encephalopathy’, ‘global developmental delay’) are pinned beside cheerful ultrasound photos from what feels like someone else’s pregnancy.
Threshold Rituals
Each object has developed its own caretaking ritual. Every Sunday I:
- Wipe down the pram’s oxygen tank holder with antiseptic wipes
- Rotate which stuffed animal sits in the crib, as if giving each equal opportunity to spark connection
- Test the mobile’s mechanism despite knowing it won’t elicit response
- Reorganize the unopened clothing by season, pretending this is normal nesting behavior
These meaningless ceremonies form the liturgy of our half-life, repetitive motions that can’t alter reality but momentarily soothe the ache of uncertainty. The physicality of these objects – their weight in my hands, their textures under my fingers – provides rare concrete sensations in a world of medical abstractions and ambiguous prognoses.
When Spanish friends visit, their eyes inevitably catch on these artifacts of interrupted childhood. I’ve learned to interpret their microexpressions – the quick glance away from the unused high chair, the poorly concealed shudder at the medical equipment camouflaged among baby items. Their discomfort mirrors my own divided heart: this simultaneous longing to clear away the reminders and terror of erasing what little proof remains that Zephyr was ever a typical baby.
These threshold objects have become silent witnesses to our dual existence. They remember the child who was and accommodate the child who is, while I remain suspended between mourning and hope, between preparing for loss and praying for miracle. The pink pram will keep rolling through Valencia’s sunny streets, carrying both my living son and all the ghosts of what might have been.
Two Lands, One Limbo
The beige walls of Cardiff’s PICU still haunt my peripheral vision. That particular shade – not quite cream, not quite taupe – became the backdrop to our first purgatory. Its fluorescent lights hummed a continuous B-flat, punctuated by the rhythmic whoosh of Zephyr’s ventilator. The scent of antiseptic gel and overcooked cafeteria vegetables clung to my sweater for months after we left. Even now in Valencia, sometimes when I close my eyes to shower, I’m transported back to that chair by Bed 7, counting the seconds between his chest rises.
When we crossed the Pyrenees last winter, I thought distance might dilute the memories. Instead, our Valencian apartment became a mirror universe of care. We transformed the sun-drenched balcony into a makeshift nursing station – oxygen concentrator where geranium pots once sat, medication syringes lining the wrought-iron table instead of tapas plates. The Mediterranean light that once promised siestas now illuminates every tremor in Zephyr’s fingers during physical therapy. His pink pram (same model, new wheels) parks where we’d imagined placing a citrus tree.
The medical bills tell their own borderless story. Cardiff’s NHS paperwork came stamped with urgent red codes: “PALLIATIVE CARE PLAN ACTIVATED” in block letters. Valencia’s invoices arrive on crisp white paper, itemizing each respiratory therapy session at €85.50. I’ve developed a surreal fluency in both systems – knowing precisely which Welsh form to request for overnight respite care, which Spanish clinic stocks the specialized feeding tubes. Two countries, two languages, but the same relentless calculus: how many euros or pounds per milliliter of hope?
What nobody prepares you for is the domestic archaeology of caregiving. The Cardiff flat we abandoned still contains fossilized traces of Before – unwashed baby grows in the laundry basket, half-finished packet of breast milk storage bags. Our Valencian home accumulates its own layered history: the corner where Zephyr first lifted his head during tummy time (March 14, 3:22pm), the balcony rail his fingers briefly grasped last Tuesday. These geographies overlap in my mind like transparencies on a lightbox – the emergency exit routes from Cardiff Children’s Hospital superimposed over Valencia’s Turia gardens, both mapped according to wheelchair accessibility.
Sometimes at 4am, when the oxygen concentrator’s green light pulses in sync with Valencia’s distant traffic signals, I experience double vision: Zephyr’s current body (long-limbed, solemn) overlaid with his six-week-old self kicking in that same park. The Spanish sun that once made him squint now barely elicits a blink. Yet this land offers its own small mercies – nurses who kiss his forehead during home visits, pharmacists who memorize his prescription, neighbors who simply nod as we pass without demanding progress reports. In Cardiff, we were a medical case. Here, we’re just another family at the mercado, buying overripe peaches he may never taste.
The true border isn’t between countries, but between versions of motherhood. One Lara pushes a giggling infant through autumn leaves in Bute Park. The other adjusts a feeding tube in Plaza de la Virgen. Both real, both mine – like Zephyr’s two selves existing across some invisible meridian between recovery and retreat. Our Spanish doctor calls this “el territorio de la espera” – the waiting country. No visa required, but you pay in pieces of your heart at every imaginary checkpoint.
The Oracle’s Ambiguity
The Spanish pediatrician’s hands moved in slow circles as she explained what she called the “spectrum of possibilities” theory. “With cases like Zephyr’s,” she said, tapping her pen against the lightbox displaying his latest brain scans, “we’re not looking for binary answers. Every small response exists on a continuum between reaction and reflex.” Her words hung in the air like the dust motes floating through the Valencian clinic’s afternoon light – visible yet impossible to grasp completely.
The Language of Prognosis
Medical consultations here carried an eerie resemblance to the ancient Delphic oracles we’d studied during my journalism days in Greece. Where the priestess of Apollo once spoke in riddles (“You will go you will return not in battle you will perish”), modern neurologists delivered prognosis poetry: “The eyes track but don’t follow”, “His startle reflex suggests awareness yet doesn’t confirm cognition”, “This could indicate improvement or simply spinal cord activity”. Each phrase required the same careful parsing as Pythia’s verses, where meaning lived in the spaces between words.
I developed my own lexicon for measuring progress:
- 0.5 points when his eyelashes fluttered during bath time
- 1.0 points for spontaneous finger movements
- 2.5 points if he turned toward sudden noises
- The elusive 5.0 – a smile, any smile, even if just gas
The scoring system kept me sane. Quantifying micro-improvements created an illusion of control when everything else – his breathing patterns, seizure activity, muscle tone – operated on some cosmic timetable I couldn’t decipher.
Threshold Guardians
Zephyr’s team became modern-day gatekeepers between worlds. The physical therapist measured millimeters of head control gain like Cerberus judging souls. The speech therapist placed drops of apple juice on his tongue, watching for swallowing motions as intently as Charon observing coin placements. And always, always the doctors with their Rorschach test explanations:
“See how his toes curl? That could mean…”
“The way he startles at loud noises might indicate…”
“When pupils constrict like this, we sometimes observe…”
Each sentence trailed off into possibilities, their medical training colliding with the irreducible mystery of brain injury recovery. They spoke in percentages (“30% chance of speech”, “60% probability of assisted sitting”), numbers that meant everything and nothing when applied to a child who’d already defied the 0.03% survival odds post-40 minute cardiac arrest.
The Weight of Interpretation
Night shifts became my Delphi. Between 2-4am, when Zephyr’s breathing settled into its fragile rhythm and the apartment complex hummed with refrigerator sounds, I’d review the day’s events like an augur reading entrails:
The 11:32am yawn – voluntary or autonomic?
The 3:15pm finger twitch during lullabies – coincidence or recognition?
The 7:09pm eyelid flutter when Dad came home – light sensitivity or anticipation?
Our entire existence narrowed to this forensic examination of micro-expressions. I caught myself assigning meaning to random muscle movements the way ancient Greeks interpreted bird flights. The human mind rebels against uncertainty, stitching narratives from chaos.
Living in the Subjunctive
Spanish grammar unexpectedly became my psychological refuge. The language’s subjunctive mood – used for hypotheticals and possibilities – mirrored our new reality. Where English demanded declarative statements (“He is improving”), Spanish allowed for nuanced uncertainty (“Espero que mejore” – I hope he may improve). This linguistic flexibility created space for hope without demanding certainty.
Zephyr’s doctor noticed my fascination. “In medicine,” she said during our last consultation, “we’re trained to think in indicatives. But cases like your son’s? They exist in the perpetual subjunctive.” She gestured to his file. “We document what we see while acknowledging what we can’t know.”
Her words freed me from the tyranny of binary thinking. Zephyr wasn’t recovering or declining – he was existing in a third space where both possibilities remained eternally present. Like quantum particles occupying multiple states until observed, his potential hovered in superposition.
The Oracle’s Gift
The greatest wisdom came unexpectedly during a routine checkup. As the neurologist reviewed Zephyr’s latest EEG, she said something that reshaped everything: “The brain writes its own recovery narrative. Our job isn’t to interpret the signs but to create conditions where healing can author itself.”
In that moment, I stopped trying to decode every tremor and focused instead on crafting moments of quiet joy:
- The warmth of his body against mine during afternoon naps
- The way sunlight painted gold patterns on his forehead
- His distinctive scent – milk and something indefinably Zephyr
The medical oracles would continue their ambiguous prophecies. But I’d learned to dwell in the questions themselves, finding solace in the not-knowing, making peace with the spectrum of possibilities that was my son.
The Stillness Between Stars
The projector’s mechanical whirring stops precisely at midnight, its artificial constellations fading from our ceiling like Zephyr’s consciousness six months ago. My finger hovers over the emergency call button – that red oblong that connects our suspended reality to medical intervention. The plastic feels colder than his skin tonight.
Through the window, real stars blink over Valencia’s Turia Gardens where we once pushed a pink pram containing a different child. The same pram now holds twelve pounds of medical equipment beneath its sun-faded cushions. I count his respirations (14 per minute, down from 16 yesterday) while moonlight traces the unused oxygen tank in the corner.
Three floors below, the city celebrates Viernes Santo with processions we’ll never join. Their candlelit hymns rise through our balcony like the ambient noise from Cardiff’s PICU – that relentless symphony of monitors and murmured prognoses. The Spanish doctor’s words echo: “With life-limited children, time becomes… how you say? A theory, not a measurement.”
Zephyr stirs in his starless sleep, left cheek pressed against my pillow where I’ve memorized every capillary in his translucent skin. His lashes flutter (0.5 on my makeshift progress scale) but don’t open. The NG tube whispers against his onesie – size 12-18 months, still with tags because buying larger sizes feels like gambling with fate.
On the nightstand, my phone displays a photo from five weeks pre-collapse: his dimpled hands clutching a sunflower taller than his body. The timestamp mocks me – 19/10/22 09:47 – three hours before his heart stopped in that Welsh layby. I’ve developed a morbid taxonomy of time: Before Purple Skin and After Projector Stars.
A moth taps at the window seeking our artificial sky. I imagine it’s Orpheus checking whether we’ve looked back yet. The palliative team warned about ambiguous loss, but no textbook described this exact shade of grief – how his warm weight against my ribs coexists with the ghost of his first laugh.
His fingers twitch in sleep, brushing the emergency button I can’t bring myself to press. This is our liminal liturgy: the vigilance of his breath, the way his hair smells like hospital soap and apricot shampoo, the Spanish doctor’s “wait and see” reframed as a kind of hope. Tomorrow we’ll attempt sitting practice with his new orthopedic cushion. Next week, another EEG. Always the unasked question: Is this progress or prolonging?
Dawn will come as it has for 187 mornings – not with dramatic crescendo but with the quiet click of the feeding pump finishing its cycle. The projector’s stars have vanished, but his chest still rises. The button remains unpressed. Somewhere between Cardiff’s rain and Valencia’s orange blossoms, between clinical death and full consciousness, between mother and mourner, we persist.
You who watch monitors instead of sunrises, who measure life in milliliters and micro-improvements – does your tomorrow also hover between miracle and mercy? The night offers no answers, only this: his small hand has crept into mine as the city’s church bells mark the hour. For now, that’s enough astronomy.
