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Muted, Weathered, Older

Anne's been down and out the last three days with a sore throat and a really bad fever. Every night has been a battle for Faith and I, as the fever tries to soar to new heights every night. Last night we got really worried when the reading came in: 40.4 degrees celcius. Anne was still cogniscent, thank God. We quickly sponged her down despite her continuous protest.
She looks worn and a little dishellved, her face raw from the constant rubbing of sponge or towel. She speaks in a whisper, choosing more often than not to communicate through the shaking and nodding of her head. When she goes into her bouts of coughing, you can hear her utter cries of help in between coughs, calling for mummy.
If you had a heart, the sight of Anne in that condition would shatter it. Looking her Anne, I realise that I am looking no longer at a baby, but at a young girl who seems determined to outlast this bug – finding little pockets of comfort to sneak in a smile.
I can only imagine the thousands of parents who have children on hospital beds, in intensive care units, and send a quick prayer their way.

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