Twinkle is hurting tonight, and it's bad.
None of the usual tricks work. I try everything I can think of, and even pull a few things out of thin air, hopeful that I can distract her pain away. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. It doesn't work.
So, I am sitting here, on the floor, next to her bed, as I often do in the wee small hours of the morning. Her perfect little right hand hangs off the side, and rests lightly on my shoulder; it is her way of making certain that I stay nearby, even in her fitful sleep. I sit here, feeling useless and incompetent, unable to even provide a decent night's sleep for her.
One of the things that I dread on a night like this one is the terrible loneliness. At three or four in the morning, there aren't a whole lot of people around here interested in conversation. If there was someone here, someone who could say to me "You really are doing the best you can" it might make it easier for me somehow.
And then, I think of Twinks. She's the one who I should be concerned with. I'm so selfish sometimes. She just rolled over, sighing in her sleep. That particular sigh means that she has crossed back over into the world of dreams, where she doesn't feel the pain, or have to fight the fear. Twinkle is the one who usually comforts me. When she calls for me to come and stay by her side, she is the one who will tell me that "When you are here, it doesn't hurt so bad". Twinkle is the one who hugs the stuffing out of me, and crowns me as The Best Mommy in The World. Twinks is somehow *my* cheerleader, crossing the boundary between parent and child to reassure me that I'm doing a good job.
The Wrench has to go to work in a few hours, so I encourage him to go to sleep. The cats will keep me company.