It isn't fair for her to be trapped in this state. I know that, but what alternative is there? It's not as simple as making a decision of life or death. She can still breathe on her own. They feed her, and sustain her, and monitor her. Her brain is alive. Her organs function. But there is some invisible barrier we can't seem to breach, no matter what we try.

Every day, I live with the fear that she will slip away from me. But I also dread the long-term consequences if she doesn't. What will become of her? Will she lay like this for the rest of our lives? Will she still be trapped in this bed when I take my last breath?

And what about our daughter? All the milestones Ivy will miss. Her first words. Her first steps. Her school years, and then, inevitably, her wedding.

I close my eyes and mourn all over again until the baby starts to fuss. Quietly, I rock her in my arms until she calms, marveling over the fact that she does this for me. That I have the ability to calm anyone.

"There's someone here I'd like you to meet," I whisper to Ivy as I lean down and lower our daughter to her chest, holding her there.

She squirms against her mother, her tiny body settling in as her eyes grow heavy. After a few moments, she falls asleep that way, and I continue to hold her there, long after my arms have gone numb and my back begins to cramp.

I can't say exactly why, but this moment feels important. Like I need it to go on for as long as it possibly can.

"That's our daughter," I tell her in a hushed voice. "Can you feel her, Ivy? Can you come back for us now?"

My eyes move over her face, my voice breaking as I go on, each declaration more desperate than the last.

"I'll do it all. I'll feed her. Change her diapers. Get up with her in the middle of the night. You won't have to do a thing if you don't want to. You can keep resting, just as long as you're here with us."

"Mr. De La Rosa." A soft knock on the door interrupts us, and I look up to see one of the nursing assistants standing there.

"I'm so sorry," she says, gesturing to the familiar cart in front of her. "It's bath time."

"Right." I offer her a tight nod and gently remove my daughter from Ivy's chest, cradling her in my tired arms.

"I know you usually offer," the nursing assistant says as she wheels in the cart with the plastic basin. "But you've got your hands full now."

I frown as I acknowledge her observation. Since Ivy has been here, I felt like it was my job to take care of her in this way. The only way I still could. But now, I can't.