As he spoke he unwrapped the gray shawl and extricated a pretty little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock with its little linen apron, all bespoke a mother's care.
And the reason in the end my body did start to get enough oxygen was because for every second of the night they were watching, and they were thinking and they were caring and making the interventions I needed.
They connected with the remarkably ordinary emotions preserved within it: the grief of a family, the tenderness shown to a child, and the quiet hope that memory might outlast mortality.