Zoe has a rash. A bizarre, non-itchy, bumpy, red rash that is now covering most of her body. The doctors don't know what it is, and, unbelievably, they don't seem too concerned about it--mainly because it doesn't itch and she doesn't have a fever. But it scares me. It scares me like all her little health idiosyncracies scare me. I worry that they're all interconnected in ways that the doctors can't understand because they won't put it all together. Perhaps it is because I've watched her almost die twice, but I often fear for this child's life. Most of the time I'm able to push the fear aside. But sometimes the most minor fever, cough, or non-specific viral full-body rash brings the fear screaming back to my consciousness. Especially late at night, when I've spent too much time online looking for an explanation. And then I go sit on the side of her bed to make sure she doesn't, in fact, have a fever. And she wakes up and smiles at me and goes back to sleep holding my hand. And I think about what a force she is, and how different she is from most children her age, how much more she sees and understands, and I become convinced that it's all because she's meant to force her whole life into a shorter span. The thought is almost too much for me to bear.

Six years into this gig, I should really know better by now.