Three years ago today, I pushed open a heavy door with clammy, shaking hands. The dimly lit room was warm, the scent of antiseptic and exhaustion hanging in the humid air like a damp curtain. Drawn white shades over a large window hindered the bright light of a beautiful day. Five people followed behind me, their previously excited voices temporarily silenced. A single overhead light cast a soft glow over a bed surrounded by machines quietly beeping, their bright yellow lights blinking on and off like buoys encircling an island. My daughter rested on the bed-island propped up by doughy