text: She is sick again. I feel her jolt from where she lay next to me and I grab what we affectionately call her, “chemo bucket” and bring it to her face. I rub her back and whisper between her vomit and sobs. I tell her things are gonna get better. I tell her she is strong. But I only believe one of those things. We lay back down and soon I feel the slow rise and fall of her breathing against my body. Absentmindedly, I go to run my fingers through her hair as I have done a thousand times before, but instead of the thick, black waves they are used to weaving through, my fingers catch the last few wisps of hair, my touch slicking them against the sheen of her sweat-drenched forehead. I slowly ease out of the bed, making sure that I don’t disturb what little sleep she is able to get. I won’t be sleeping tonight. I never sleep on chemo nights. They tell you what to expect and that everyone handles it differently, but their words do not prepare you for the reality of seeing your child filled with what they deem as “medication.” They don’t tell you about the hair that lines the tub and the brushes you try to hide because the bristles are tangled with strands of who she used to be: a normal little girl. They have no advice when your daughter asks if you can take down the hospital mirrors because she thinks she is ugly, and they certainly don’t tell you what to say when she asks you not to forget to take care of her pets because she won’t be able to when she is in heaven. I look around the room and see oceans of cards and flower arrangements. Drawings from her friends at school and get well soon cards written with the best of intentions. I reach for a card I have read over and over: Hey Sarah, I miss seeing you in class! You’re really lucky you’re not here, we do times tables every day. Hope you will be better after spring break. Get Well Soon! Those three words have never tasted so sour in my mouth, watching my child deteriorate before my eyes. I set the card down and look at the vases of flowers surrounding my daughter’s bed. Sarah has always loved flowers, as have I, but here they are cruel. Decapitated, half-dead beauties giving off a sweet yet simultaneously sickly smell. All their faces stare at her, almost in a sad acknowledgment, understanding their shared fate. I want to hide her from their judging eyes. I pace the tiny room and block their view of her. I am her guardian, her sentinel, and I refuse to let them taunt her with the imminence of their death. She stirs and I rush to her, but it was just a dream, not sickness that caused her to wake. “Momma?” “Yeah, baby,” I whisper. “Just making sure you’re still there.” “I’m not going anywhere.” I said, and I kissed her sweet, sweat-slicked forehead as she fell asleep again, and I stood watch, because I never sleep on chemo nights.