She stands, face as white as a sheet. Waiting, Wondering.
Dr. Levinson reaches for her hand. “Good to meet you, Rhea. You’ve got one hell of a little fighter on your hands, I’d say.”
She nods. And I feel a swell of pride in my chest that makes it feel like it might burst.
He shifts his weight, folding his hands in front of him.
“Toddlers are particularly vulnerable to RSV—especially when it presents this aggressively. Honestly, many children with the numbers she had… don’t make it.”
My stomach flips.
“But,” he continues, “I think we’re past the worst of it. She’s still in a critical window—we’ll monitor closely over the next twenty-four hours—but we’re encouraged by the way she’s responding.”
“We were able to use some newer respiratory interventions,” Dr. Levinson says. “Intubation was avoided—just barely—but the care she received in the air and immediately upon arrival may very well have saved her life.”
My knees almost give out.
He pauses. “I don’t know if he told you, but I’ve known this one—” he nods toward me, “—sincehewas a toddler. Went to med school with his uncle. Still play poker with his dad once a month like clockwork.”
It’s the kind of privilege I know comes with wealth and connections. The kind I often hear about and resent. But tonight I feel nothing but gratitude and relief.
“So, it’s all a lot to take in.” He acknowledges, “What questions do you have?”
The room is quiet for a moment. He waits.
I should let Rhea go first, but she doesn’t seem able to start. Maybe she wants me to ask, still needs to catch her breath and still her mind.
And, at the exact same moment I start to speak, her words tumble out, too.
“When can we see her?” We both ask it. In unison.
Dr. Levinson smiles—small, tired, but real.
“Right now,” he says. “She’s settled, but just for a few minutes. She’s stable, but still in a delicate window.”
Dr. Levinson glances between us—his face kind but serious.
“Before you go in, let me prepare you a little for what you’ll see.”
I tighten my grip on Rhea’s hand.
“She’ll likely be asleep,” he says. “Between the sedation we used to help ease her breathing, and the sheer exhaustion her body’s been through—it’s normal. Good, actually. She needs the rest.”
I nod, feeling the sting behind my eyes.
“She’s on high-flow oxygen through a nasal cannula. It’s not invasive, but it might look bulky on her face. Just know—it’s helping her. A lot.”
Rhea asks, “Is she… in pain?”
“I don’t believe so. She’s being monitored closely. She has an IV for fluids and medication—small port on her right hand. There’s also a heart rate monitor, oxygen saturation clip, and a few other leads for vitals. It’s a lot of wires, I know. But everything’s doing its job.”
He pauses, then softens.
“She's in a calm, controlled environment. Quiet. Dim lights. One nurse in the room at all times. You can talk to her. Touch her hand. Just be gentle. Her body’s doing hard work, even now.”
We both nod in understanding.
“We normally allow one visitor at a time,” Dr. Levinson adds, “but for now, we’ll make an exception. Just a few minutes—go in together. Let her hear your voices. Let her know she’s not alone.”
